


With Heat Comes Wanting

by Kikai



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2013, Disney World & Disneyland, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-05
Updated: 2013-11-05
Packaged: 2017-12-31 14:10:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 34,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1032610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kikai/pseuds/Kikai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester doesn't believe in karma. It's not because of karma that he picks up that weird homeless guy in the over-sized trench coat off the side of the road and gives him the first meal the guy's probably seen in days -- he does it because his kid brother is a bleeding heart and wouldn't leave him alone about it. He doesn't let the stranger stay with them because he feels sorry for the guy or anything and thinks that good karma is going to come back around to him for it. If karma truly existed, Dean wouldn't be hopping from motel to motel. He wouldn't have to sink to stealing and lying and cheating just to get by. And he most certainly wouldn't be falling for said weird homeless guy in the over-sized trench coat who is teaching him how do all those things. </p><p>No, Dean Winchester doesn't believe in karma, and judging by the way Dean's life is unraveling at the seams, held together by just a couple fraying threads from and whatever small shred of dignity he has left, karma obviously doesn't give a flying fuck about Dean Winchester either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Heat Comes Wanting

**Author's Note:**

> [[Fic Masterpost](http://kikai-saigono.livejournal.com/1776.html)] [[Art Masterpost](http://justdepends.livejournal.com/22134.html)]
> 
>  
> 
> First to [Frayed1989](http://archiveofourown.org/users/frayed1989), my artist, who deserves the biggest thanks for being patient with me because it seemed like I was constantly behind during this Big Bang. I learned a lot and know what better to do for next year, and I'm happy that not only did an amazing artist choose my fic (seriously, this art is freaking awesome!) but also that I was dealt a lot more patience than I was probably worth.
> 
> Second to everyone on tumblr who supported me in writing this, even if it came out awful and not at all what was expected! Every single one of you that said you were excited to read anything I wrote down made my day. Really.
> 
> Third to [Jina](http://deanwinchestersheart.tumblr.com/), who not only gave me moral support when it came to the DCBB, but also just gives me moral support on a daily basis and is one of the best friends you could ask for. She gives and gives with out asking for anything in return, and I wouldn't have survived this thing with out her. 
> 
> Fourth to my boyfriend, who was probably my biggest supporter in this. And by that I mean he unplugged my internet and wouldn't give it back until I finished my obligations.
> 
> And last but not least, the DCBB mods, who really give a piece of themselves to run this thing for us. Thank you mods!
> 
> I apologize for any remaining mistakes.

 

 

 

The first time Sammy tries, and fails, to cover his freshly blackened eye is the night Dean tells him to pack his things and get in the damn car.

There’s yelling and screaming and drunken insults—there always is—and Sam tries to convince him that it’s okay, really, it only happened once and it won’t happen again Dean, I was the one who provoked him, _promise_ —but Dean had made up his mind and everyone knew that when that happened you either get out of the way or get yourself run over.

Dean doesn’t stand up to John. He has never before been able to when it came to issues between himself and his father; but then again before this those issues never came down to his father and _Sam_. John had always left Sam alone and if that meant taking the brunt of his mostly misguided anger, well Dean was content with that, strangely. It was one of those things that he always thought was so stupid—rolling with the punches, if you want to be a smartass about it—up until it actually happened and Dean _knew_ he was the only thing keeping Sam from being the new scapegoat for everything that seemed to go wrong with John’s day. Suddenly it was all so damn crystal clear, a most unwelcome epiphany, and Dean understood all those pitiful wretches he’d always heard about and scoffed at and why they stayed; and after that leaving never made it past a fleeting thought in the back of his mind ever again.

But leaving _together_. Consequences be damned, Sam was not staying here.

Before, Dean was always the good son with his _yes sirs_ and _sorry sirs_ and _won’t happen again sirs_ but now—now his actions barely even register past the involuntary trembling in his hands as his fingers wrap around John’s shoulder and give him a firm shove, allowing Sam an opening to slip up the stairs and grab whatever possessions he considers worth taking because he may not see them again. It’s liberating and terrifying and Dean’s breathing is ragged just from the adrenaline of it all. After being strung for years, for far too long, something in Dean has just _snapped_.

Dean practically has to wrestle with his father for the keys, but after a well-aimed threat to call the cops and _really dad, do you wanna get them involved again?_ John backs off and opts to instead fumble after Sam in a half-drunken stupor as Dean rummages hastily through his father’s nightstand.

Sam doesn’t drop his bag when John takes him by the shoulders and whispers empty promises and apologies and slurs his way through a speech about how this is never going to happen again, Sammy, I’m so sorry Sammy, didn’t mean it Sammy, but the boy is definitely trying to choke back a sob and reaches for his father in a plea of forgiveness for what is about to happen—one that Dean has seen before in himself. It’s a sick peace offering, filled with guilt so unwarranted it makes him want to vomit seeing Sammy turning in to the boy he once was right before his eyes. In an instant Dean is there, wedging himself roughly between them and placing the heel of his hand firmly on John’s chest, forcing the staggering man back and away and ordering him to“back _off_ dad.”

A silent standoff ensues and Dean’s expects some kind of blow to come, it’s not like it hasn’t happened before when Dean back talks and doesn’t mind histongue like good sons are supposed to; but John just grabs the nearest bottle within reach, takes a swig of it only to find it empty, and storms off in search for a new one, grumbling about ungrateful kids and who would want them anyways and _get out of my god damn house!_

Sam is ordered to the car, and it takes some coaxing and a few harsh commands before Sam complies, taking the keys offered to him with a tremor in his grip and slipping out the front door as silent as he possibly can while Dean starts tearing the cushions off of the battered old couch, looking for the small stack of bills he knows is hidden there. He knows because he hid it there himself—after rent and food and gas and new clothes for Sammy that are ultimately now getting left behind, he never had much left from his small paycheck that he got from working weekends at Bobby’s, but it’s enough for at least a couple days and really it’s all they’ve got now so it’ll have to do.

It’s while Dean is violently stuffing the cash and a few changes of clothes—he doesn’t have that many possessions, much less ones he’s sentimental about—into his duffel that John attempts reason. _Reason._ As if anything can still be solved by god damn _reason._ If it is reason John of all people is turning to now, Dean is beyond hearing or caring about it.

“Dad, I told you, I fucking _told_ you if you laid a hand on Sammy that we were gone,” he snaps without looking up in to his father’s eyes. Whenever he did that he found his resolve would evaporate right out of him and he couldn’t go back on this now even if he wanted to. “No three strikes, no second chances. Can’t say I didn’t warn you and you know I’m not one to fall through on my promises.”

“Dean,” John starts as he stumbles a bit and reaches for his son, who side steps him easily. “Son. I love you and your brother so damn much. I’m sorry. _I’m sorry._ ”

“Sorry just ain’t gonna cut it this time, dad.” Dean zips up his bag and slings it over his shoulder. Finally, after taking a deep breath and steeling himself, he turns to face his father and looks him dead in the eye, challenging. For once. “You know I love you, dad; me and Sammy both. And I have dealt with your shit and your drinking and I took up doing those odd jobs at Bobby’s to pay the rent when you lost your job at the factory, and I even let you put your hands on me because I thought I was being a good damn son by just taking it and _hell_ —sometimes I think I honestly deserved it. But Sammy doesn’t and I’m not gonna let him become—” The word _me_ dies in his throat before he can force it out. “He deserves a better life than this, dad. I should have left the second I turned eighteen, should have taken Sammy and gotten him the hell away from you. But I thought you could change and I didn’t want to give up on this, on us—for mom’s sake. I tried, dad, but you didn’t. And I’m just tired of trying.”

He attempts to walk around John, who stands between him and the door of the bedroom he shares—shared, he has no plans to ever see this room again—with Sam, but just as he’s passing there is a hand hooking in to his elbow and holding him firmly, but not harshly, in place.

“Dean,” John rasps, suddenly sounding more sober than he has in months, as he looks his son directly in the eye. “I’m doing the best that I can.”

Dean stares right back at him, his eyes puffier and far redder than he’d like them to be as he stands there in the small, cramped room with his father.

Normally this is where Dean would cave, would duck his head and nod to whatever tirade John was aiming at him with those damn _yes sirs_ and apologize even though he was never quite sure what he had done wrong. Normally this is where he’d slink back to his room, defeat and a little pang of shame for not being strong enough to stand up to the man hanging over his head. Sam would try to ask him what had happened, what he’d done, what had made dad so angry this time—and Dean would tell Sam not to worry about it or to get some sleep because he had a big test tomorrow as he wiped his split lip with the back of his hand or rolled his bruised shoulder. Then he’d lower himself gingerly on to his stiff mattress, poorly feigning sleep, and cutting off Sam’s attempts at conversation. But the years had worn down most resolve he had left, and soon enough he’d give in and move over when Sam would climb in to bed next to him and told Dean all about this cool idea for an invention he’d had and how it was _sure_ to make them rich. _Mean it this time, Dean, got an idea that’s gold_ —and he’d talk all about how he was gonna buy them ten houses because he was pretty sure you didn’t count as rich until you had at least ten houses. And a couple peacocks. He’d read an article in a magazine about a bunch of celebrities who owned like six or seven peacocks and let them roam around in their back yard. Apparently, Sam would go on to say, if you’re rich it’s okay and not trashy at all. Dean would smile as Sam fell asleep mid-sentence during his rehearsed pitch for why everyone needed a machine that tied your shoelaces for you and pulled the covers over him as silent and best he could manage before drifting off himself.

It was those kinds of not too distant memories that left some kind of contempt that had been growing in Dean for years, pooling deep inside him and just waiting. Waiting for that little spark that would ignite _everything_. He balls his fists and jerks his elbow out of his father’s grip.

“Sorry dad,” he finally manages, allowing the small pride he feels that he only breaks eye contact one time and it’s out of force of habit and not trepidation for once, “but your best just ain’t good enough anymore. Maybe it is for me, but not for Sammy. He’s gonna have a chance, dad. He’s gonna make something of himself; he’s not gonna end up like you and me.”

John doesn’t reply, doesn’t try to stop his son as Dean makes his way to the front door, kicking a long forgotten beer bottle out of the way as he goes. Dean swears he hears one last call of his name, but he’s already out the door and can’t look back now or else he knows he’d be done for; so he ignores it, slams the front door shut and walks around to the driver’s side of his father’s old, black Impala. It was promised to Dean once upon a happier and less complicated time, and Dean figures that there’s nothing wrong with cashing in that promise now—he’s the one who has been keeping it in shape and running, so he’s got to have earned it by now. Surely.

Dad will manage because even without Dean there he somehow always does, just like Dean will somehow manage too. He doesn’t have much of a plan, he’s sort of flying by the seat of his pants, but he’ll do _something_. He’ll get another job, try and pick more hours up at Bobby’s, he’ll find them a place—but where do they go for now? Where can Dean take them to crash for the next couple of days? Sam still has school; he can’t _not_ go to school. Dean stopped going a while ago and he wasn’t really missed, so they were a-okay on that front, but Sam _had_ to finish school—Dean wouldn’t hear otherwise. And would this legally be considered kidnapping? Could the police come after Dean for taking his kid brother away from their drunk of a father? And if they caught him, then where would they take him? He’d either go straight back to John or to foster care.

Maybe Dean has been too rash. Maybe he hasn’t thought this through well enough.

Dean pauses at the thought, his hand resting on the black handle of the Impala. He looks down through the window at the form of his brother hunched over in the passenger seat, his forehead resting on his knees as he tugs at his shoulders in a tight self-embrace.

A thousands panicked thoughts race through his mind all at once. Is it worth it? Can he give John a second chance or would that set some nasty precedence? What’s best for Sam?

Dean glances back up at the front door of what was quickly becoming not his home anymore, the cracked and peeling paint the only thing staring back at him. John is nowhere to be found and has not followed his two sons out to the car; is not even attempting to stop them.

That’s all Dean really needs for an answer.

He takes a long, shaky breath to try and steel himself as he opens the car door and slides inside. Sam doesn’t look up, and Dean tosses his duffel in the back seat with Sam’s things, noticing how little Sam decided was worth keeping and feeling a sharp pang of guilt—or something close to that—for it.

When Dean slides the keys in to the ignition and turns them, bringing the car to life with a rumble and a roar, Sam finally lifts his head from his knees. To his credit, there are no tear tracks marking his cheeks and his eyes weren’t puffy and red, but Dean could definitely see something was broken in his brother, the evidence clear as day on his face.

“Hey,” he tries, nudging the boy in the shoulder. He gestured to Sam’s swollen eye. “That hurting much?”

“M’fine, not as bad as it looks” Sam responds quietly, rubbing at his cheek with the back of his hand. He turns to look out of his window to stare at the front door of the battered old house, Dean taking careful notice. A thoughtful look crosses his face, darkens his stare, and he does not look back at Dean when he finally says, “Dad didn’t mean it, you know.”

Dean sighs, heavy, and adjusts the rear view mirror absentmindedly, even though he was the last person to drive this car and knows the mirror is already tuned to him. He’s perfectly aware that he’s stalling and knows that the longer he sits here the harder it will be for him to leave for good.

“Sam, he never does. Dad loves you; you know that, but…” Dean trails off, readjusting the mirror for the fourth time, scowling when he notices his fidgeting and firmly grips the steering wheel to stop himself. “Dad’s just…he’s sick right now, Sammy. He can’t help it.”

“Is he gonna get better any time soon?”

Dean puts the car in reverse, biting back the words he doesn’t want Sam to hear. “Yeah,” he lies, and turns to watch the rear as he backs out of the driveway, glad for the distraction from Sam’s hopeful stare. “Yeah, he’s gonna get better and when he does we’ll get to come back.” The word _home_ almost makes it past his lips but he bites it back just in time.

Sam nods to himself once, seeming to at least on the surface accept Dean’s proposal. “Where are we going now?”

Dean doesn’t answer as he pauses at the end of the driveway, waiting. For what, he’s not really sure; he thinks he knows and he’s not entirely positive if he wants it or not—but when a long minute passes by and nothing happens and no one comes to stop them, Dean relents and shifts the Impala in to drive, pulling quietly away.

He tries not to notice the way Sam is still looking up at him, clearly expecting an answer. Dean can’t give one because he really doesn’t know where they’re going. Past _grab Sam and leave_ he had no real plan, and the thought made his stomach twist in a knot because he has no idea what to do, where to go, how to do _this_.

“Hey,” he says, avoiding the question with a nudging arm at Sam, hoping to distract him from the quickly shrinking image of their once home behind them. “I’m starving. You wanna grab a bite? Let’s go to that diner, the one you always liked. My treat.”

 

*

 

 

 

 

Sam orders pancakes, a huge stack of them with raisins and Dean gives him a look that says _raisins, really? Gross, Sammy_ before ordering a cup of coffee for himself and asking if the waitress will draw a whipped cream smiley face on his little brother’s pancakes with a wink.

“I thought you said you were starving,” Sam says cautiously when the waitress sets the pancakes in front of him, crooked, half-assed smiley face and all. He eyes the cup of coffee. “You can’t just have that, Dean.”

“Lost my appetite looking at your unfortunate face,” Dean replies, shrugging and taking a long sip that makes his throat burn in a delicious—and most importantly, distracting—way. “I’m fine, really. Now eat up.”

Sam does as he’s told, taking three large bites and chewing pensively before setting his fork down and fixing Dean with a hard stare. “Dean, what are we doing?”

“Last I checked, eating.”

Sam sighs and he sounds tired. “Dean, I’m serious.”

“ _Dean, I’m serious,_ ” Dean shoots back in a childish, mocking tone. He watches Sam’s face contort into face that’s anything but pleased and sets down his cup of coffee. “Seriously though, I’m figuring stuff out. Don’t worry about it.”

“I want to go home.”

Dean leans back in his seat. “Sorry kiddo, we can’t go back. Not yet.”

“So where are we supposed to go?” Sam asks, another mouthful of pancakes jumbling his words, and Dean can’t help but look amused at the sight. “Are we gonna stay at Bobby’s?”

Dean bites his tongue and brings his coffee up to his lips for another sip, buying time until he has to answer, but he scowls when he finds it empty.

He’s thought about going there. Bobby was always good to the boys and sometimes would aggressively invite them over for a couple nights ( _Ellen won’t leave me alone about it and Jo seems to like ya, God knows why)_ if John was having an especially rough week. But Dean can’t bring himself to go there. Bobby would inevitably tell John where they were, and Dean would be strong enough to stay there for a few days before he started to feel like a nuisance and a burden; then he’d cave shortly thereafter and run straight back home. That’s how it always ends and Dean isn’t exactly known for breaking bad habits.

“Nah,” he finally answers, his voice dropping off when the waitress bounces over to refill his cup. He mutters a quick _thanks, Sweetheart_ before looking back to his brother. “We’re not going to Bobby’s.”

“Okay,” Sam says slowly, his eyes narrowing at Dean. “So where else could we possibly be going?”

“ _Sam_ ,” Dean replies, sharp. He closes his eyes in an attempt to regain some composure and only opens them again when he realizes the coffee cup in his hand is burning his fingertips. “Sammy,” he repeats, softer this time, “I said I’m gonna figure stuff out, alright? I don’t want you to worry about it. We’re gonna be just fine. Just leave it at that.”

His brother seems to let the words sink in, his eyes falling back to his pancakes as he pushes them around with his fork. It is a few minutes before he says anything. “I trust you, Dean,” he finally says, quiet. “You know that.”

Dean keeps his eyes firmly trained on the window, watching a few men in business suits walk by on the pavement, their ears permanently attached to their expensive phones and seemingly oblivious to the world around them. Eventually he turns his head to look at Sam, and he can’t help but hope that one day his little brother will be one of those people, the men in their stupid designer suits and cars—those guys he absolutely can’t stand. “I know kid,” he says, throwing a smile Sam’s way. “You shouldn’t, really, but thanks. Now finish your stupid pancakes.”

“I can’t. I’m full.” Sam pushes his fork around the plate a few more times before he stops and blinks up at his brother. “Help me?”

Dean rolls his eyes, trying his hardest to hide a small smile threatening to blow his cover, but leans over anyways and grabs the fork from his brother. He stabs a couple layers of the food, avoiding as many raisins as possible, and brings the fork to his mouth. He savors the taste of it, nodding to Sam in approval at how his brother practically drowns the pancakes in cheap maple syrup, just how he likes it. As Sam’s insisting he eventually takes two more large bites before setting the fork down on the plate with a loud clattering sound.

“Happy?” he asks around the pancakes in his mouth.

Sam just shrugs and finishes the rest.

 

*

 

 

 

 

Dean tells Sam to go wait in the car while he pays, and when he joins them he has a Styrofoam cup of coffee steaming in his hands and a pocket full of mints, which he pelts his brother with until Sam’s protests are loud enough to attract attention.

Eventually he starts the car and hands the coffee to his brother, but keeps the Impala in park. “Listen, I don’t know how long we’re gonna be on the road so I’m gonna go take a piss realquick. You need to go?”

Sam shakes his head and takes a sip of the drink in his hands. “I wasn’t the one who just downed six cups of coffee in there. I’m good.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Be right back.” Dean shimmies out of the car, telling Sam to lock it behind him as he makes his way around to the rear of the diner where the bathrooms for public use are.

He doesn’t make it two steps around the corner before he’s sent stumbling, nearly tripping over a what at first glance looks like a large mass of clothing right by the curb of the sidewalk.

“Jesus,” he curses under his breath as he catches himself on the wall, training his eyes on the clutter of laundry.He is about to kick it out of his way angrily before he freezes. He’s positive he just saw that pile of clothes breathe and unless he’s starting to see things he’s pretty sure that there is a _person_ underneath there.

The first thing he notices is a clump of wild dark hair, uncombed and a little dirty, and the rest is lost on him because the stranger seems to be essentially drowning in a very old, very tattered tan coat.

“Whoa, sorry man,” Dean quickly apologizes and side steps around the hunched figure sitting on the edge of the curb. He is bending over, his head resting in the crook of one of his elbows planted firmly on his knees. The guy doesn’t look up at him or respond, so Dean just shrugs and reaches for the pewter handle on the bathroom door.

It’s locked. Dean jiggles it a couple more times for good measure before sighing and stepping backwards off the curb and stuffing his hands in his pockets. He kicks at a piece of gravel absently, wishing he didn’t have to do what he was about to—he hates talking to strangers, especially the weird, silent ones of the homeless variety. “Hey, uh,” he begins, motioning towards the door, “you know if someone’s in there?”

The head buried in the coat suddenly looks up, as though just noticing Dean’s presence and his gaze is wide, seemingly surprised that he’s being addressed. He finds Dean and eyes him once, his expression softening from surprise to something still resolutely guarded. His stare drops down to the ground and he nods solemnly as he brushes the corner of his dry, chapped lips with the back of his knuckles, and Dean notices how grimy and dirty they look.

Dean watches him, his lips hardening in to a tight line across his face as he eyes over the kid. And ‘kid’ is exactly the word Dean would use to describe him – this guy can’t be older than Dean himself. The dirty and tattered, aged clothes are doing a pretty good job at hiding it, but Dean would be damn surprised if he was past his late teens. It made something in Dean’s chest tighten and he tried to shove the annoying pang of pity back down from wherever it sprung up from, because the last thing Dean should be doing at this very moment is feeling bad for _others_.

Maybe it’s that feeling—or just Dean’s knack for turning something awkward—that keeps him talking. “It’s a bit hot for that, isn’t it?”

The kid’s eyes dart back over to him again, narrowed in silent question and Dean gestures towards the over-sized trench coat. Rough hands come up to palm at it, silently asking for confirmation before Dean nods.

The dark-haired kid doesn’t answer him, only fingers at the material in thought before throwing Dean an indignant look, like he took Dean’s question as some kind of insult.

Dean shuts his mouth before he can say anything else stupid.

A minute later the door to the bathroom opens and one of the diner’s line cooks steps out, wiping his wet hands on his apron and fixing his paper hat back on his netted hair. He gives a nod of acknowledgement in Dean’s direction before stopping in his tracks when his sights land on the kid still sitting on the curb.

“Hey kiddo, long time no see,” the man says in a kind tone that suggests some level of familiarity between them. Dean gives one look to both of them before brushing past the two figures and heading for the bathroom. He closes the door on them before he gives himself enough time to eavesdrop.

He empties his bladder quickly and splashes his face a few times with lukewarm water, the only temperature level the sink seems to want to emit, and washing his hands. Twice for good measure, he’s not taking any chances with this filthy shit hole.

When he emerges back outside, the silent, dark-haired guy on the curb is nowhere to be found. The cook, however, is leaning up against the wall of the diner, a cigarette in hand. Dean gives an obligatory nod to him and brushes past, making half a step around the corner before he stops.

He shouldn’t really care, it’s none of his business—that’s at least what he keeps trying to tell himself as he jumbles a couple of coins in his pocket absent mindedly. Before he can stop himself, though, he’s already turning back to the cook, the sensible part of his mind pelting him with reason after reason as to why he shouldn’t be doing this.

“Hey,” Dean starts, and the cook looks over at him, “who was that guy? The one who was just here?”

The cook looks confused for a second and takes a long drag of his cigarette before puffing out a cloud of smoke and asking with a slight edge to his tone, “Why? He bother you?”

“Nah.” Dean pretends to look at his watch, which broke ages ago but he still wears it every day, and Dean tries to tell himself that it’s not because his dad gave it to him for his fifteenth birthday. “Just curious.”

The cook regards him for a minute and the scrutiny makes Dean shift uneasily; he peers his head around the corner to check on Sam, who seems to be content reading a newspaper Dean picked up for him and sipping the coffee in his grip.

“Don’t know his name, never asked,” the cook offers finally, “but he used to come around here all the time before the owner started chasing him off. Me and some of the girls used to give him what was left over at the end of the night.”

“You mean food?” Dean asks, and there’s that annoying weight in his gut again.

“Yeah, he was always real skinny looking. Heck, all of us in there barely make it on what we get paid but at least we got a roof over our heads and food on our table each night,” the man says, his face pulled back in a scowl. “The owner said if he caught us giving away free food again he’d fire us. What an asshole, right? I mean that kid can’t be older than my daughter. She’s going on eighteen in a few months.A kid shouldn’t have to live like that, man.”

Dean nods and his eyes drop to his feet. “So where’d he go?”

“I told him he couldn’t stay here or else big boss man was gonna have the cops come get him. I did let him know that the owner’s gone at eleven when we close, and even though I get off in a couple hours one of the girls might sneak something out to him. I said he should try back then.” The cook shook his head and threw his spent cigarette to the ground before stamping it out with his foot. He looked up at Dean. “I’d give him money if I could. No kid deserves a life like that, do they?”

Dean ducks his head and peeks around the corner again, catching sight of his little brother, eye still bruised but looking cheery as he reads something in the newspaper he must find amusing.

“No,” he responds weakly. “No, they don’t.” He gives the cook a parting nod before making his way back towards the Impala, a lump in his throat and the coins in his pocket now heavier than they were before.

When he slides in next to his brother, Sam gives him a look that says Dean is doing a shitty job at hiding whatever is wrong with him. “Dean? Are you okay?”

The older brother nods a little too quickly, a little too eagerly, before shifting gears and pulling slowly out of the parking lot. “Yeah, I’m fine. What say you and I get a room and order pizza tonight? We’ll stay up all night watching scary movies.”

Sam’s gaze softens immediately from _you’re hiding something_ to excitement and he nearly spills the cup full of coffee as he turns to his brother. “Really? Dad never let us do that.”

“Well that’s just how cool of a big bro I am, Sammy.”

Sam snorts. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say _cool_.”

Dean responds by grabbing the newspaper from Sam’s lap and smacking him right in the face with it, taking a lot of delight in how girly Sam’s squeal of _Dean_ sounded.

And if while they are driving down the highway, arguing over which movies they were going to watch first and which ones weren’t nearly scary enough, Dean’s mind wanders off to a lanky, nameless kid with matted dark hair and downcast eyes, hungry and drifting around with no real place to go, he doesn’t show it. Or at least he doesn’t think he does.

 

*

 

Eventually they stop at some chain motel off the side of the highway, still close enough to home to feel like Dean could go back any time he wants to, even if he doesn’t really want to. It has cable, hot showers, and free breakfast until nine in the morning, but most importantly it’s cheap. Dean decides to get a room with two full size beds even though it’s a bit more, but he wants Sam to feel like it’s something close to home, close to comfortable, at least for the first night.

There’s a small gas station right next to the motel, and Dean decides now is as good a time as any to fill up the car, so he makes Sam wait on the pizza they ordered while he tops off the Impala and grabs some drinks and junk food for the both of them. He’s positive Sam will initially turn his nose up at the stuff—he’s been on a weird ass little health kick lately—but Dean knows he’ll eventually cave and indulge in some high fructose goodness.

He passes by a cooler and loads his arms up with water and soda, and _really,_ he’s a terrible big brother for buying them this kind of food, but he makes himself feel a little better about it by snagging a couple of ready-made chilled sandwiches that look at least somewhat healthy. They have vegetables in them after all, so that’s got to count for something.

Dean pays, fills up the car, and drives back over to the motel and up to the door to their room. Sam slips outside, a piece of pepperoni pizza (Sam had wanted spinach, but Dean has his limits, alright?) stuffed in his mouth as he grabs a couple of the bags out of the car. His nose scrunches up when he gets a good look at the contents, but other than that little display he says nothing of Dean’s nutritional choices.

Dean’s starting to think they got a pretty sweet deal on the room, because soon after piling three slices of pizza on the little paper plates provided with their order he switches on the TV to find the cable includes HBO. Dean jokes about catching some skin flicks, much to Sam’s distaste, before settling on a movie that is probably supposed to be scary but ends up making the two brothers nearly break down in to tears of laughter more than anything. Dean pretends not to notice when a particularly tense part does, however, make his brother nearly jump out of his skin. At one point Dean does a pretty spot-on impression of the main character, whose actor over-acts at every scene and gestures so wildly with his hands that it’s hard not to laugh, and the toothy grin it causes to spread across Sam’s face is enough to make how silly he must look worth it.

When it ends and the credits roll, Dean extricates himself from the sheets he’d shimmied under and grabs Sam’s plate, walking towards the bathroom to shove it and his own in to the trashcan. He starts collecting what’s left over to shove in the mini fridge, asking his younger brother if he wants to grab the shower first, when the air rushes out of his lungs and he nearly drops a plate as two wiry arms snake around his waist and pull tight.

Dean pauses mid-sentence; the room is silent save for the dripping of the bathroom faucet off in the distance and the buzz of the muted TV. Dean can feel Sam’s forehead against the middle of his back, pressing in like he’s trying to hide from the world outside the confines of their shabby, dark motel room. Dean hears his brother’s breath hitch slightly, saving himself at the last second, but it makes Dean turn around nonetheless and place his elbows on Sam’s shoulders and hugs him a little closer.

Normally Dean would make a snide remark about chick flick moments, or call his brother Samantha and say he’s being a total _girl_ , but Dean bites his tongue because it’s not something he really _wants_ to say.

Sam doesn’t look up at his older brother, only rubs his bruised eye with a roll of his shoulder and gives a tell-tale sniff that he makes a valiant attempt to hide before pulling away without a word. Dean watches him go, his brother rubbing at his eyes with the end of his sleeve, which Dean notices is fraying a little. Sam climbs back on to his bed and grabs the remote, unmuting the TV as though nothing at all had just happened.

Dean turns back around and finishes putting away the left over pizza and he blinks rapidly a couple times to fight back the moisture that threatens in the corner of his eyes. Outside a soft but constant patter against the glass of the dirty windows announce the approach of the rain.

Neither Sam nor Dean speaks. They don’t need to.

 

*

 

After a long, hot shower and the first half of another movie, Sam is out cold. He piles his blankets on top of himself, nagging even in his sleepy state for his brother to remember to brush his teeth. Dean doesn’t listen and instead climbs under the covers himself in his own bed, forgoing the shower that he’s sure he desperately needs in favor of even more needed rest. He’s going to really need it tomorrow for he’s got some serious job hunting to do; might as well hit the ground running, right? He’s not scheduled to work at Bobby’s yard until the weekend after next, and even then he's ninety percent sure he won't be going back to the Singer property any time soon. Which is a relief because he isn’t sure he can handle the tirade that is sure to be thrown his way when Bobby finds out what Dean has done—John has surely told the Singer family by now. He absently wonders if Bobby knows the whole story, or if John has left out the bits where he was most involved—but he eventually decides that it doesn’t matter. And if Bobby tries to convince Dean to go back, well, fuck him.

He loves Bobby; the grumpy old fart’s like a second father to the Winchester brothers, but Dean is calling all his own shots now for once in his measly lifeand he’ll be damned if that all gets thrown out the window because Bobby smacks him upside the head, calls him an idjit, and tells him to get his ass back home. If Dean has a hard time standing up to his father, he’s even shittier at standing up to Bobby.

Dean slides his fists underneath his pillow and pulls it closer to his head, listening to the soft pang of rain growing louder and harsher by the minute. He wonders what his father must be doing right now. Is he over at Bobby’s? Are they looking for Dean and Sam together? He bets Ellen is probably worried sick over the two of them, as usual. To Dean’s face she’s just as blunt as Bobby can be, even adopting the nickname of _idjit_ for him and telling Sam that if he doesn’t cut his caveman hair soon she’s gonna do it in the middle of the night for him. But behind that front of tough love he knows the deep affection she harbors for the two of them, and Dean has always gravitated towards her for it, even giving her an extra hard time wherever he could manage it.

Dean firmly plants his head, face down, into the pillow in a vain attempt to push away all of the thoughts racing through his head at the moment, trying his best not to think about Ellen, or Jo, or Bobby and definitely not think about John or about what he’s going to do in a few days when he runs out of money, or how he’s going to afford school supplies for Sammy, or how he’s going to keep a roof over their heads—

_A roof over their heads. Food on their tables. No kid deserves that kind of life, man._

Dean sits bolt upright, a gasp of breath escaping him at the shock of it as those words shoot through his brain like a sharp bolt of electricity.

_That kid._

Suddenly the rain feels much heavier and far more threatening against the glass and Dean’s full stomach grumbling indignantly at all the junk food he clobbered down causes a heavy guilt to wash right over him. He finds the clock on the nightstand giving off a faint red glow that reads nearly twelve in the morning, and Dean runs his hand roughly across his face.

His eyes travel over to Sam where he’s sound asleep, content and mostly silent save for a light snore that he’s had since he was a little kid.

 “Fuck me,” Dean hisses and rips the covers off of himself in one violent, swift motion as he swings his legs over the side of the bed and gets to his feet. He’s still in his jeans, wearing them to bed a bad habit he could never shake himself out of, and he snatches his jacket off the end of the bed, shrugging it on wordlessly.

By the time he’s wrenching open the small mini fridge and seizing one of the chilled sandwiches and bottles of water from the gas station, Sam is starting to stir awake.

“Dean?” he calls softly in the dark, rubbing his eyes and groggily sitting up on his elbows. “What are you doing? You okay?”

“Yeah, just going to get a coke,” Dean responds as he discreetly pockets the sandwich in his jacket and toes on his already tied boots. “Be right back. Don’t open the door for anyone.”

Sam’s so tired and out of it that he doesn’t question _why_ his brother is going out to get a soda so close to midnight, he just lazily flops himself on to his stomach and mutters a muffled, “Just watch out for the polar bears,” and is snoring again half a beat later.

Dean can’t help but crack a smile at him as he nudges his way out the door, locks it securely behind him, and makes a break for the Impala to avoid the heavy rainfall.

 

*

 

The rain beats so hard against the windshield in thick, heavy droplets that Dean nearly runs off the road twice and really, all of this is starting to feel like a lot more trouble than it initially seemed worth.

“Jesus, when did you become such a bleeding heart, Winchester?” The words are a heavyweight on this tongue; he’s positive that if Sam were sitting there with him he’d point out that Dean has _always_ been a bleeding heart even if he never would admit to it and Dean would be hard pressed to fess up to him that Dean was only like that around _him_. If Sam knew what he was doing right now his brother would never let Dean live it down—would say that he’s happy Dean is _doing the right thing_ and God Dean just wants to turn around at the mere thought of those words.

Doing the right thing! What a freaking joke. Like _doing the right thing_ ever gave Dean a leg up in life, like karma ever came back around to him for anything ‘good’ he did. He’s not even really sure anymore why he’s doing this or why he _cares_ ; he’s got enough to worry about just making sure he and Sammy get on, and giving a damn about anyone else just isn’t high on his priority list.

Or at least it shouldn’t be. And yet here he is at midnight driving all the way back to that stupid diner. Dean could kick himself. No, he’s not doing the right thing. He’s not doing it so he can get a pat on the back or because of _freaking karma_. It’s for Sam. It’s always for Sam.

Dean sighs with a small amount of relief when he turns on to a road and the small diner, though barely visible in the combination of the dark and the rain, comes in to view.

When he pulls in to the vacant parking lot, his heart catches in his throat when his eyes fall immediately upon a figure he is able to recognize very quickly if only for the long tan trench coat—now drenched and hanging heavily around narrow shoulders—that the wearer was still more or less buried under. The kid is leaning against the side of the diner right where Dean had seen him last, the gutters lining the roof providing just enough cover for him to stand out of the rain, but he’s still drenched from head to toe like he got caught out in the storm and had to book it for cover.

Dean half expected, half wanted the kid to not be there. As Dean pulls closer and the headlights catch on the kid, bathing him in bright light, he looks up, his eyes wide and searching. When he catches sight of the car he stiffens noticeably as though he’s expecting some sort of a fight or confrontation—and Dean realizes with a pang of shame that he probably is and likely has been conditioned to be on his guard; it’s never usually a good thing when a strange car pulls up beside you in the middle of the night.

Darkened eyes follow him warily as Dean brings the Impala to a halt at the side of the diner and Dean has the sudden urge to just slam his heel to the pedal and hightail it out of there. Why was he even doing this? Wasn’t this like the epitome of stupid ideas, going out by oneself to meet a homeless stranger in the middle of nowhere where no one can likely hear you scream? Dean vaguely remembers a song entitled _Stranger Danger_ he was forced to learn in fourth grade. He’s not entirely sure how it goes anymore but he’s almost positive that somewhere in the lyrics this exact situation has its own verse and that should be enough to make him turn around and forget the whole thing.

But when he gets a good look at the kid, who is standing with his back more firmly pressed up against the wall and his dark hair plastered against his face from the rain, he doesn’t honestly look all that threatening—he looks more pathetic than anything.

“Please don’t be a serial killer, please don’t be a serial killer,” Dean repeats over and over under his breath as he puts the Impala in park and disentangles himself from his seat belt. He leans over and with a little difficulty is able to roll down the passenger side window of the car.

The soaked man watches him, his eyes darting to catch every small move Dean makes, and even though he looks like he’s going to bolt any second at the tiniest opening, he doesn’t.

“Hey,” Dean says slowly as he angles his head for a better view. The rain has let up somewhat, but it’s still beating against the Impala with determination and Dean curses when he sees it starting to trickle in through the open window and onto the seats. The boy fixes Dean with a hard look before looking off to his side; it’s almost as if he expects to see Dean talking to someone behind him, but when he finds no one else there he stares back into the car.

Dean sighs. “You know no one is here, right?  Closed like an hour ago.” When Dean receives no answer, just more awkward eye contact and the continued sound of rain beating against the roof of his car, he jams his hand in to his jacket and pulls out the sandwich he’d pocketed earlier, looking slightly squashed and a little worse for wear but still edible and that was the most important thing, Dean figures. He holds it up to the open window. “Here,” he offers without further explanation.

The guy just stands there, his gaze flickering between Dean and the wrapped sandwich in his hand. After half a minute of a wordless staring contest, Dean rolls his eyes and gives a dramatic sigh of annoyance.

“Listen,” he says sharply and gives the sandwich a small shake, “I was here earlier, alright? I talked to that cook; he told me they used to give you extra food here and that their dick of a boss ran you off. Believe me when I say that your situation is hitting a little too close to home for me. Now, my conscious isn’t going to let me get a wink of sleep until I do this and not to be an ass, but this has been one of the shittiest days of my life and I could _really_ use my four hours. I bought this for my kid brother so it’s not laced with rat poison, I assure you, so if you could kindly get over here and take this freaking sandwich so I can be on my merry way, I’d _greatly_ appreciate it.”

There’s a pregnant pause, just long enough for Dean to grimace and start to retreat his hand in defeat before he catches the guy taking a small step forward. Dean watches him as he looks up in to the inky black sky as if gauging the rainfall, before stepping out in to it completely bare. Dean thinks that he could at least pull his ridiculously large trench coat over his head for some attempt at shelter, but the tattered old thing looks like it would do more harm than good. Fat drops of rain instantly plaster the kid’s wild hair to his forehead and Dean’s notices grimly how small it makes him look, drenched from head to toe and masked by baggy and ill fitting clothes. Dean just notices a drop run right off of the end of his nose before he realizes that he’s freaking staring and he hurriedly looks away and clears his throat.

Dean feels a hand land tentatively on the sandwich and he’s just about to let it drop away from his hand and in to the kid’s grasp when he feels the hand whip away suddenly and without warning, and he almost drops the sandwich because of it.

The offending hand retreats in to one of the deep pockets of the trench coat and moves around inside, searching. Dean watches, curious, before lifting his eyes in silent question to meet the kid’s, who is squinting at the sandwich clenched tightly in Dean’s hand. His hand stops moving in his pocket and he pulls it out, empty.

“I don’t have any money.” Dean hears him grind out quietly; it’s the first thing the kid has said since they met and Jesus it sounds like his throat went through a meat grinder or something. Never in a million years would Dean have thought a voice so gravely would be coming out of a kid like that. Was he sick or something?

Dean snorts. “No, really?”

The smirk Dean is wearing falls from his face as soon as he realizes that the other guy either didn’t catch his sarcastic tone or just didn’t care.

“I can’t pay you,” the kid continues, ignoring Dean. He wipes the back of his dirty hand against his forehead, stopping the flow of water from running in to his eyes.

Dean tries hard to stifle the urge to roll his eyes; failing to do so he looked out of his window instead. “You think I don’t know that? Jesus.”

“What do you want for it then?”

The question took Dean by surprise, and he whipped his head back around to catch a dark, questioning glint in the other’s stare.

Dean is about to ask what the hell that was supposed to even mean, and then he catches the way the kid tucked his hands in to his elbows and seemed to fold in on himself and sink deeper still in to that ratty coat. He shoots a couple quick glances at his surroundings; probably looking for an out if he needed one. When the meaning hits Dean, finally, an ice cold chill runs right up his spine and disperses all the way down to the tips of his fingers.

“I don’t want anything for it. That’s sick, man.”

The guy seems to regard Dean for a brief moment, his coat so thoroughly soaked now that the rain isn’t even absorbed in to it anymore—it only bounces right off of him and on to the pavement below. He seems to realize how utterly silly he looks standing in the rain staring down a sandwich like it’s either going to be his salvation or it’s going to put him six feet under, so he quietly lifts the wrapped package from Dean’s hand, brushing their fingers as he does so and takes a few steps back under the sliver of roof that had kept him dry up until now.

He doesn’t thank Dean, and honestly Dean’s sort of happy for it. He doesn’t really want any thanks—he’s not doing it to be nice after all.

The guy doesn’t start unwrapping it and eating it in front of Dean, but instead just holds it at his side and fixes him with another one of those looks, and God that look is starting to creep Dean out. His eyes don’t seem to be grateful or, in that same regard, ungrateful—just questioning; just darkened eyes following Dean’s every action as if he’s trying to figure out what move Dean is going to pull next. But most of all, the look is all some kind of curiosity. If Dean didn’t know any better—and of course Dean knows because he’s seen that look plenty of times in his admittedly short life—it’s a look of why. Why are you doing this? Why do you care?

Yeah, why do you care? Because of Sam, right? You sure, Winchester?

“God, shut up,” Dean hisses to himself, tightening his grip on the steering wheel.

“Sorry?”

Dean blinks once, twice, then looks back over at the kid standing a few feet from his car now, still staring inside at him with that strange concentration. “Nothing, just talking to myself.” He glances at his watch, forgets once more that it’s broken and forever stuck on 3:47 in the afternoon, and grumbles to himself. “Well, look, uh, it’s getting late and I gotta head back—” home? Dean purses his lips. “—to my brother.”

The kid nods once, seeming to understand the conversation is over and he presses his back against the wall of the diner, his grip still tight on the wrapped sandwich.

Dean taps the steering wheel with his palm awkwardly. “So uh—stay out of trouble then, yeah? I guess I might see you around.”

He watches as the guy’s eyes fall to the package in his hand. “Yeah,” he hears him mumble. “You might.”

Dean nods, more to himself than anything, as he wordlessly rolls up his window, snuffing out the rain that was pouring its way in to his car, and pulls away.

He makes it to the exit of the parking lot, which if he’s honest with himself is way farther than he thought he’d get, before his foot slams on the break and the car comes to a halt with a harsh jolt. Dean yanks at the rearview mirror violently, the flood lights of the diner spotlighting the dark haired kid who was still leaning against the grimy wall still staring at that god damn sandwich.

“Why isn’t he leaving,” Dean growls to the empty interior of the Impala. He continues to stare, wondering more and more with each passing second what the fuck he’s looking for. Why’s he still here? He fed the kid or a night. That was the whole plan, wasn’t it? Surely the guy had somewhere to—to go at night, right? A shelter or something. There has to be tons of homeless shelters for teens around town, Dean is positive of it. Maybe he’s waiting for the rain to let up? Maybe it’s a pretty far walk—

“No, absolutely fucking not, Winchester.” Dean shoves the rearview mirror back in to its original place. “You are not responsible for that guy. You’re responsible for yourself and Sam and that’s fucking it. Quit being such a girl.” He hovers his foot over the gas pedal and fixes his eyes back on the road in front of him.

And this is where Dean’s resolve should be kicking in and he should get the hell out of dodge as they say, but it’s like every joint in his body had willingly locked itself in place and when he tries to reach for the gear shift he finds his body betraying what his brain was telling it to do. The Impala continues to sit right at the edge of the lot, idling with a steady hum of the engine the only noise filling up the interior of the car.

Then, despite every brain cell in his head firing off orders otherwise, he steals one last quick look over his shoulder.

He’s still there, the kid—and Jesus Dean really needs to stop referring to him as kid because they’ve got to be nearly the same age—only now he seems to have noticed Dean’s hesitation and is looking right at him.

“Fuck!” Dean finally makes a grab for the gear shift, but instead of putting it in drive like he should be doing he jams it in to reverse and immediately puts his foot to the gas pedal.

The Impala begins backing up towards the diner again; Dean can see how the teenager visibly stiffens once more at his approach, but not seemingly nearly as much as the first time. Instead of a look of what Dean would say was Bambi caught in the headlights, his shoulders were more squared and his feet were set slightly apart. He looked as if he was ready to hold his ground.

Dean pulls up to the side of the restaurant once more, this time the driver’s side on the side of the wall, putting him closer to the guy than before and Dean can the puddle his soaked jacket is making at his feet.

The hands holding the sandwich pause in the middle of unwrapping it, and narrowed eyes cautiously watch Dean as he rolls down one of his windows for the second time.

“Relax, man. I’m not here to take back the sandwich. Or ask for payment of any kind, for that matter.” Dean pushes his hand out of his window, palm up, testing the rainfall. “So I’m going to cut to the chase here because I’m tired as fuck—you headed somewhere? If so I’m gonna be kicking myself in the morning if I let you walk in the rain when you’re so soaked already I can see you getting the flu from here. You need a ride?”

The stranger shakes his head. “No, I’m fine.”

Dean spreads his hands. “Fair enough, I wouldn’t take a ride from a stranger either. I tried.”

The stranger tilts his head. “It’s not really that. You seem like a harmless enough person.”

He’s not entirely sure why, but Dean feels a tiny bit offended. “Harmless? I could be a damned serial killer for all you know.”

“I don’t think you are. You don’t really look the part.”

Dean scoffs. “Those are some famous last words if I’ve ever heard ‘em.”

“So are you a serial killer?” he asks as he resumes unwrapping the food in his hands.

Dean opens and closes his mouth twice in an attempted reply before he finally settles on simply saying, “No.”

The guy shrugs and takes a small bite out of the sandwich.

Dean watches him chew on the bread thoughtfully. “So if you trust I’m not going to chop you up in to a million tiny pieces then why stay here? You planning on standing in the rain all night?”

Darkened eyes immediately drop to the ground and the stranger fingers at one of the lapels of his jacket almost absentmindedly.

“Unless,” Dean says slowly, quietly, as his eyes join the staring contest with the pavement, “you don’t have anywhere to go?”

The kid doesn’t answer, only takes another small bite.

Dean watches him for a minute. “Well you can’t just stay here all night. You’re dripping wet,” he eventually says, matter of fact and his eyes still glued on the sandwich, trying to look anywhere but right into the eyes in front of him.

“Done it before,” comes the low reply.

“Well, where have you been going for the last few days?” Dean asks. There is no response—just the sound of saran wrap peeling away from itself and Dean heaves a heavy sigh. “You’ve been staying here haven’t you?”

“Among other places.”

A soft roll of thunder reaches them, then a small crack of lightning squirming its way across the sky over the trees in the distance and the thunder that follows it is a little louder. The stranger seems to notice it as well because he leans over towards the car, sticking his head out from under the roof and peering up at the thick, dark mass of storm clouds that can be spotted even in the dead of night.

Dean watches him wordlessly for a moment before letting out a long breath through his nose. He takes his hands off of the steering wheel and leans back in his seat. “Hey,” he calls, and the kid immediately looks down at him. “How old are you, anyway?”

“Eighteen,” the kid responds after a cautious pause.

“Great,” Den hisses and he scrubs his face with his hand. “Just fucking great. Alright, I’m going to seriously regret this tomorrow but get in the car.”

The guy’s eyes narrow at him and after a short pause he finally replies, “What?”

“Look, we both know it’s about to rain cats and freaking dogs out here, you said that you don’t think I’m a serial killer—which is flattering and all, don’t get me wrong—and for whatever reason I’ve turned into a fucking girl today so before I change my mind just… just get in the car. You’re not going to sleep out here.”

Dean expects at least a little more protest than what he receives, because not even a minute later the kid gives a couple cautious looks over his shoulder—looking for what, Dean isn’t sure—before he’s reaching for the handle of the backseat door. He neatly fits himself inside, what with no bags or belongings to share the space with, and no sooner has he closed the door than the rain outside seems to come down harder than ever.

Dean hears shifting in the back seat before he places the Impala in drive and tries to ignore the annoyance he feels at how soaked his baby’s upholstery must be getting now. “So, you don’t have anywhere you have to be, do you?” he asks as he glances in the rearview mirror to see the stranger wiping his soaked hair out of his eyes and take a much larger bite of the sandwich this time. He gets a shake of the head in reply. “Well, I’ve got a room not far from here with my kid brother. That’s where we’re headed so if you have any objections you better tell me now.”

The rustling of the saran wrap pauses. “I remember your brother,” Dean hears him say. “You were sitting with him earlier. I saw you through the window.”

“So you do remember me then?”

“Of course I remember you,” the stranger responds dryly. “I just didn’t know why you came back. People usually only talk to me if they want something.” There’s a pause. “This is a very nice car.”

“Uh—thanks,” Dean says, eyeing the way the kid runs his hand over the seat. “It’s my dad’s.”

“He’s kept it running quite well for such an old car.”

“Yeah well, he kind of, uh—he kind of gave it to me. I always liked keeping her in shape.”

The car is numbingly silent for a while after that, and Dean is tempted to put in one of the tapes he knows his dad keeps under the passenger seat, but he’s not sure if his kind of music will be appreciated right now, but the awkward silence is practically killing him. Instead he settles on putting all his concentration on the road, the storm now directly over them and keeping the road harder and harder to see.

At some point Dean can’t stand it any longer. “So,” he says when the rain finally lets up enough so that he can actually hear himself think over it clattering on the hood of the car. “You got a name or something?”

The stranger chews on the last bite of the sandwich, contemplating, before balling up the wrappings in his hand and depositing the trash in to one of his pockets. “Castiel,” he eventually says, so quiet Dean can barely hear him.

“Castiel?” he repeats and sees the other nod his head. “Huh. That’s a, uh—that’s a cool name.”

The kid—Castiel—doesn’t answer him, only rests his chin in his palm and stares out of the window at the rainfall.

Dean watches him scratch at some of the grime tucked in to the crevices of his fingernails and drums his fingers against the steering wheel for distraction. He’s so caught up in watching Castiel that he almost misses his turn leading to the motel.

Dean clears his throat, causing Castiel to look up from his fingernails, curious. “Listen, I’m really not one to get in to people’s personal business but since you’re going to be crashing with us for a night I think I have the right to ask. What’s up with you?”

“What’s up with me?” Castiel repeats, tilting his head to the side.

“Yeah, like—well if you want to be on the nose about it, what got you out on the streets in the first place?”

Castiel continues to stare at him through the rearview mirror.

Rubbing the back of his neck, now red with something like embarrassment, Dean adds, “You don’t have to be super specific. I just want to know you’re not like an addict or something.”

Castiel stuffed his hands in his pockets and fixed his stare back on the blurring scenery outside. “It’s actually pretty simple. I lived somewhere, and now I don’t anymore.” He glanced sideways at the back of Dean’s head and mumbled in to his palm, “Is that good enough for you?”

“Alright, alright, I get it.” He glances quickly back at Castiel with a smirk. “So do you make it a habit to take rides from strangers often?”

The humor appears to be lost on the other because Castiel doesn’t look at him when he replies dryly, “Not usually, no.”

Dean is eternally grateful when he sees the large billboard directly over the motel glowing in the distance.

When they pull in to the parking lot, Dean quickly throws the gear in park and turns to face Castiel. “How long has it been since you had a hot shower?” he asks, eyeing Castiel’s hands.

Castiel spreads his hands and looks down at them as if just noticing how dirty they were, but doesn’t answer.

“Well,” Dean sighs, “I ain’t paying per shower or anything and the water pressure isn’t so horrible. Shower’s yours if you want it.” He pauses in thought and then, as if an afterthought, he adds, “I’m Dean, by the way.”

“Why are you doing this?”

The question is small and quiet, and Dean averts his eyes away from Castiel, shifting back to facing the front of the car.

“I dunno,” he offers simply after a while. “I guess I just—well I guess some stupid part of me still believes in fucking karma or something.”

Castiel cranes his neck to peer out of the window. “So, mind if I ask why you’re staying here? It seems fairly obvious that this isn’t your usual place of residence.”

“Yeah well, let’s just say that I used to live somewhere, and now I don’t anymore.”

A quick twitching of Castiel’s lips shows his amusement. “Fair enough.”

When Dean swings open his door and makes a break for the row of rooms, Castiel follows closely behind him. Dean pulls out his key card, hoping that the small amount of rain that permeated his wallet wouldn’t fry it, and gives one last glance over his shoulder at Castiel.

Up close Dean is able to get a much better look at him—he was fairly tall, nearly Dean’s height, and even though the coat wasn’t helping, Dean could tell that somewhere beneath all those baggy clothes Castiel was built strong despite his lanky appearance. The hair that was now starting to dry was sticking out in many odd ways, giving Castiel the appearance of a wild bird, but he seemed to be doing his best to stare anywhere but at Dean. Unchallenging.

“My kid brother is asleep, so don’t wake him up,” Dean orders as he slides the key in to the reader. “It’s because of him that you’re here. Just so you know.”

Castiel nods and follows Dean in to the room.

Sam doesn’t stir at the noise and Dean allows Castiel to go in front of him before closing the door behind them.

“Shower’s over there,” he says gruffly, nodding towards a door at the back of the room. Castiel follows his gesture and nods once in acknowledgement before he begins to quietly slide his trench coat off of his body.

Dean watches him, noticing how when the coat comes off Castiel becomes almost a completely separate person. The timid nature seems to dissolve as the oppressive garment falls from his shoulders.

Dean thinks Castiel is going to leave the coat when he sees the kid pull what looks like his only change of clothes—a clean shirt—out of one of the pockets, but Castiel tucks the thing under his arm as he walks in to the bathroom and closes the door.

As soon as Dean hears the water begin to run he sets to work, grabbing the two top blankets that once had covered the beds that both brothers had decided to discard and fixing them into a makeshift pallet in the corner of the hotel room. Dean grabs one of the pillows currently going unused on Sam’s bed—he’s not giving up one of his own that’s for damn sure—and throws it in to the corner along with the blankets. He wonders if it will be enough.

Out of cautious habit Dean gathers his and Sam’s bags and shove them underneath his bed, close enough to keep an eye on. He thinks he could take this kid if push came to shove and while he was fairly sure the guy wasn’t going to try and make a move on their stuff (and why would he, it’s not like they have anything of value anyway) he knows it’s better safe than sorry when you make the more than likely regrettable mistake of letting a complete stranger crash with you for the night.

Dean crawls in to bed and watches the small sliver of light coming from underneath the bathroom door. He waits for nearly twenty minutes, but supposes he can understand that if you didn’t know when you’d be getting another shower you might spend as long as possible under the steaming water.

When Castiel eventually emerges from thebathroom, steam emitting from the room in heavy waves and brushing a hand roughly across his hair to keep it laying flat against his eyes, he meets Dean’s stare and clutches the trench coat and dirty shirt a little closer underneath his arm.

“I put some blankets and a pillow over there,” Dean croaks out, nodding in the direction of the pallet laid out on the opposite side of the room, right where Dean can keep a good eye on him. “I hope that’s enough.”

Castiel follows his eyes to the corner. “It’s more than enough,” he says simply and he folds the coat and shirt and lays them both neatly next to the makeshift bed. Dean watches him crawl underneath the covers and lay his head down on the pillow and give a small sigh of contentment, his still damp hair splayed wildly across the pillow. Dean wonders silently how long it’s been since Castiel has had a bed to lie in.

“There’s some pizza and other stuff in that mini fridge,” Dean finds himself saying suddenly as he kicks his way under his own blankets. “You’re welcome to whatever you want.”

When Dean flicks out the light and jams his head in to the pillow, there is a long pause. Just when he thinks that Castiel must have fallen asleep he hears very quietly from the other side of the room, “Thank you.”

Dean faces away from him and listens to the thunder crash outside.

“Don’t,” is all he manages to say.

 

*

 

Dean stirs at the sound of Sam laughing, and it’s something he hasn’t heard in a while. He almost thinks he’s back home until he rubs his cheek against his pillow and finds how scratchy it is and hey—that’s definitely not his pillow back home.

He lifts his head and blinks his eyes open, trying to re-familiarize himself with his surroundings.

When he catches sight of his brother facing away from him, leaning over the side of the bed and seemingly giggling at something in that direction, he tilts his head. “Sam? The hell are you doing?”

Sam whips his head around at his brother’s voice. “Morning,” he says, cheerful, and it’s then that Dean’s clears enough sleep out of his eyes and to see some wild dark hair sticking up over the top of the bed. He sees Castiel, hair mussed from sleep and his trench coat spread over him, sitting up in the blankets stuffed in to the corner of the room. He glances over at the clock on the bedside table, groaning when he realizes it’s nearly eleven o’clock, way past the cut off time for the free breakfast in the motel lobby.

“What are you two doing?” he asks, eyeing them both suspiciously.

“You should have told me you brought a guest,” Sam says, smirking.

“Yeah well, I thought he’d be gone by the time you woke up,” he grumbles as he throws his covers off himself and stretches. “You should have gotten me up for breakfast, dumbass.”

Sam rolls his eyes and gestures to a small box on the table. “Stop whining, I brought you back some.”

Dean is digging through his bag when he pauses and stares down his brother. _“What?”_

“Ibrought you back some? Castiel here and I went to eat before it closed. When I woke up and found a complete stranger at the foot of my bed I figured it’d be rude to not at least invite him to breakfast.”

“ _Sam._ ” Dean bites out around Sam’s joke.“You fucking knew better than to leave this room without me.”

“Oh okay, Dean,” Sam laughs. “You seemed to trust Cas just fine when you let him stay here last night.”

“That’s diff—wait. _Cas_?” Dean peels his face back in to a grimace as he mouths the name.“Well aren’t you two just freaking chummy.”

Sam gets to his feet and stretches. “You’re changing the subject,” he adds and grabs the box of food. “Sorry Cas, my brother can be a jerk sometimes.”

“He’s not so bad,” Castiel says dryly as he pulls himself to his feet as well and shrugs his coat on. He starts folding the blankets in the corner thoughtfully, placing one on top of the other in a small pile. “He let me stay after all.”

Dean groans and rubs at one of his eyes. “It was just for one night.” He grabs the breakfast roll Sam offers up to him and with no hesitation takes a large bite of it. He chews around the enormous hunk of food so loudly he can practically feel the look of disgust his brother must be giving him. He doesn’t take his eyes off of Castiel when he adds, “Sorry.”

Without pausing Castiel replies, “And it was appreciated.” He finishes with the pile of blankets, straightens them again for good measure, and then stands to his full height and turns to Dean. He adjusts his large coat and looks Dean straight in the eye as he says, “I’m not one to overstay my welcome.”

“You’re—you’re not overstaying anything,” Sam pipes up from where he’s still standing between the two of him, clearly ignored as Dean and Castiel exchanged unmoving stares. “Dean, you’re not seriously going to kick him out are you?”

Dean rubs the back of his neck, breaking the eye contact when Castiel’s stare starts to become too uncomfortable. He doesn’t like that much eye contact. Eye contact means challenging. “Sam, he can’t stay. I’m sorry, dude.”

_“Dean.”_

“I’m getting a shower,” he says sharply, as he walks past, ignoring Castiel. He drops his half-eaten breakfast on the table and walks in to the bathroom, closing the door behind him with more force than probably necessary to get his point across.

He spends nearly thirty minutes under the scalding water, trying to burn out the anger bubbling up inside him. He’s not entirely sure why he’s so angry but when he emerges back out of the bathroom he finds Sam is the only one in the room.

“Did he leave?” Dean asks as he towels off his hair and flings the cloth on to his bed.

“Yeah, just like you told him to,” Sam bites back as he shoves past Dean in to the bathroom.

“Jesus Samantha, what’s got your panties in a twist?”

“Uh, I don’t know Dean,” Sam calls back to him, his hand on the door to the grimy bathroom. “I think it might be because you kicked Castiel out when he has nowhere else to go?”

“Sam—”

“He wouldn’t even take the food I gave him. He said _we_ needed it.”

“Well, he’s stupid. That part’s not my fault.”

Sam glares, and just when Dean is positive Sam’s about to take a swing at him, he grips the door in his hand and goes to slam it closed.

“Sam!” Dean calls, and puts a hand firmly against the door. Sam tries to close it anyway, realizes it’s a futile act, then settles for letting go of the door and turning away from his brother in silence as Dean walks to him.

“Sam, wait,” Dean says quietly, arms out in a placating gesture. “Sam, you gotta understand me here, I can’t _afford_ to keep him around. I can barely afford to keep us afloat, alright? I’m not trying to be asshole of the year here. That guy—Castiel—he’s made it so far, hasn’t he? He’s can find better people to depend on than us.”

“You don’t get it, do you?” Sam says quietly, as he moves to sit down on the ledge of the yellowed shower. “It’s not the food that Castiel wanted from us, Dean.”

Dean tilts his head and gives Sam a questioning look. When his brother still doesn’t elaborate, he says, “You’ve lost me.”

Sam heaves a dramatic sigh. “God, Dean.” He rubs a hand over his face and instantly pulls it away when it hits his forgotten bruise. “I think Cas is...I think he just has been on his own for a long time. Something really shitty happened to him.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “How do you know? He tell you that?”

“ _No,_ ” Sam hisses. “I know because he didn’t tell me _anything_. While you were snoring your ass off I was asking him how he ended up like he did. He wouldn’t say what happened to him, and he seemed pretty keen on avoiding it altogether. He _did_ tell me, however, how he got _here_. You act like you don’t give a crap, Dean, but you obviously must a little or you wouldn’t have left in the middle of the night to go find him. You brought him food, you gave him a place to crash even though you didn’t know a thing about him.”

“Don’t start with me,” Dean begins, pointing a finger down at his brother accusingly. “I had my reasons and I’m not exactly feeling up to sharing them with you, alright?”

“Dean, I’m not an idiot.” Sam sighs. “I get it, it was about me. You don’t want me to end up like that. And honestly, that’s what probably got you out of bed.” Sam stood again. “But something else made you leave at midnight in a thunderstorm to go find some random homeless guy just like any other homeless guy you’ve ever seen. Something made you bring him back here and you can try all you like convincing yourself otherwise—but whatever it was, Dean? It wasn’t me.”

Sam looks up at his brother for a moment, trying to gauge the reaction of his brother’s face, but when Dean continues to stare blankly at him like he’d just short-circuited and doesn’t know what to make of Sam’s honesty he just sighs again. “Whatever. I need to shower. And we need to find a place to do laundry. I didn’t get a chance to grab a lot of clean clothes.”

Dean takes the hint, albeit a little slowly, and backs out of the bathroom where he’s left to stand alone in the dingy motel room. He sits at the end of his bed and picks up his forgotten breakfast from the table, takes one looks at it and tosses it away, his appetite gone. He rubs a hand through his hair and drums his fingers anxiously against his knee, not entirely sure what he’s so anxious about in the first place. He’s looking around at the dirty walls of the small room and realizes that it’s too hot, and he needs air. He could go top off the Impala—yeah. That’s a good reason to get out. Maybe go rent the room for one more night. Just _one_ more.

He’s on his feet in a heartbeat and is patting his jacket for his keys when he sees it—a small bag from the convenience store stuffed with a couple sandwiches and bottles of water.

Dean knows Sam packed it for Castiel. Dean also knows that Castiel left it there—Castiel likely isn’t stupid and realizes just how in the hole Dean actually is, but Dean doesn’t need is fucking _charity_. If anyone needs the charity here, it’s Castiel. Seriously, what a little asswipe—that’s Dean’s hard earned money and Castiel just throws it back in his face? Sam gave him that food and he’ll god damn _take it_.

And that’s how Dean finds himself sprinting out the door and towards the road, the bag clutched in a death grip in his hand and doing his damndest to convince himself that he’s just going to give Castiel the bag and that’s it. That’s _it_.

The guy couldn’t have gotten far, who could in that damn coat? Dean slows down in to a very angry power walk—a guy sprinting away from his motel room probably couldn’t look more suspicious—and makes it to the main road when he catches just a flash of coat round the corner a couple hundred feet away and he chases after it.

He makes it to the corner, takes a hard right and sees that tattered old coat billowing behind someone. “Castiel!” he calls, harsh.

Castiel stops and hesitates and Dean sees him physically brace. He turns, his head tilted at Dean.

“Jesus, you’re a fast fucker,” Dean manages to get out around heavy breaths as he catches up to the Castiel, and he doubles over, his hands on his knees.

“Dean?” Castiel says, watching him cautiously. “Did I leave something?”

Dean nods before he bites out, “Yeah, you fucking did.” He shoves the bag in to Castiel’s stomach, giving the other no option but to grab on to it.

“I left this for your brother,” Castiel says, squinting at the bag.

“I don’t care, take it.”

Castiel unceremoniously lowers the bag to his side and he fixes Dean with a glare. “I don’t need your help, Dean.”

“Yeah? Well I don’t need yours either.” Dean manages to finally catch his breath and draws himself to full height. “Just take it and eat so my brother will stop bitching at me, alright?”

Castiel doesn’t blink. “Those sandwiches have meat products, and they will go bad after a couple of hours if they are not kept refrigerated. Surprisingly, I am not currently in possession of any such device. Ergo, these are of no use to me.”

Dean’s lip twitches. “Eat _quickly_ , then.”

“I’ll get sick,” Castiel replies evenly. “Then I’ll throw up the sandwiches and they will still be just as inedible and of no use.”

Dean stares at him incredulously, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. Instead of punching the guy like he wants to, he instead opts to snatch the bag from Castiel and hisses, “Fine you fucker, complain about the free food, I don’t give a shit. But next time you’re hungry don’t blame your shitty karma on me!”

He turns on his heels and stomps away—and he makes it exactly ten feet before he stops, the bag heavy in his hand. He heaves a dramatic sigh and weighs his options and how badly on a scale of one to ten Sam will bitch at him for each one.

Dean pushes his anger down and turns back to Castiel, who is still standing there staring at Dean having his internal debate like he’s got nowhere else to be.

Right—he doesn’t.

“Look,” Dean begins when he reaches Castiel again. “Yesterday was a shitty day. Shittier than normal. Your kind of shitty.”

Castiel’s eyebrows raise a fraction.

“I’m sort of—” Dean gestures vaguely, “I’m kind of in between living situations right now, but in a few days I’ll have my shit together and I’ll be good, so I can at least do this much, alright? I know you don’t want to take the food and I get it. I know why, I’d be the same way. But I’m not trying to fulfill some personal karma boosting quota for the day, okay? I’m doing it because I get—” he gestures at Castiel again –“I get this. I’m not trying to be condescending with this offer here. I’ll go get you some stuff that doesn’t go bad, alright? If I do, will you promise to just take it?”

Castiel stares at him for a long time, and Dean almost gives up home on getting any sort of answer and is already planning how he can throw the bag at Castiel and make a break for it, but honestly Castiel looks like a fast guy despite that oversized sack he insists on wearing and then that would put him back at square one—

“Alright, Dean.”

Dean sighs with relief. “Alright? We on the same page here, then? Hold this,” he says and holds the bag out to Castiel, who takes it with a slight hesitation. He motions for Castiel to follow him and is relieved when Castiel does without any further argument.

They make it a couple of feet before Castiel breaks the silence. “Can I ask how long?”

Dean looks back at him for a second, his eyebrows raised. “How long what?”

“How long you’ve been _‘in between living situations’_?”

“No,” Dean replies, quick and sharp, and it leaves the conversations open and quiet for a long moment before Dean lets out a heavy breath and stops walking. He hears Castiel’s feet come to a stop as well and he turns around. “I’m sorry, I’m just not really ready to—”

Dean pauses and closes his mouth, and his eyes fall down to his feet. He clicks his tongue and Castiel just watches him, patient. “You know what? Fuck it. I can say it.” Dean throws his hands up. “My dad’s kind of an asshole. There. That’s it.”

When Castiel doesn’t say anything in return, Dean finds himself continuing anyway. “You know, he can do whatever the hell he wants to me, but he puts his hands on Sam? What else was I supposed to do? Let him beat on a fourteen year old?” Dean kicks at the ground. “I couldn’t let him do that, so I left yesterday. That’s it, that’s the story.”

Castiel hums. “I figured as much,” he said quietly, more to himself than anything.

Dean stares at him, expecting him to elaborate. “Come again?”

Castiel gestured to his eye. “I saw Sam’s bruise. I figured you didn’t do it to him. I put the pieces together.” He gives a small shrug. “For what it’s worth, you probably did the right thing.”

Dean lets out a breathy laugh. “Probably?” Castiel doesn’t answer, so he turns around and begins walking again. When they round the corner back in to the motel parking lot, Dean says over his shoulder, “Listen man, we’re gonna go do some laundry in a few. I don’t know if you feel like sticking around, but that coat is pretty rank, so.”

 

*

 

Besides the feeling that he’s going to contract some sort of STD from any surface of this Laundromat, it’s decent enough. It’s within walking distance of the motel, so no need to waste gas, and the fresh air and stretch of his legs feels good to Dean. Yeah, the actual establishment itself leaves something to be desired, but Dean isn’t (and can’t be) too picky.

He tosses Sam a couple of quarters from his pocket that he found in a quite rewarding search between the Impala’s seats, and tells him to buy a packet of laundry detergent from the vending machine in the back.Sam’s mid-sentence in some rambling story he’s recounting to Castiel when he catches the quarters, nods, and takes off.

When Sam emerged from his shower to find Castiel standing (awkwardly) in the middle of the motel room and Dean laying (sullenly) on his bed with an arm over his eyes, he at least had the decency not to say “I told you so” _out loud_ —but he might as well have had it written on his forehead the way the little shit kept grinning at Dean as he poured himself some orange juice in to a Styrofoam cup. Castiel still insisted he wasn’t staying, but Sam seemed to not really hear it, especially after Dean told him to grab his clothes and silently implied Castiel was tagging along. He was still acting smug when they left for the Laundromat, and Dean got a small bit of retaliation by knocking the orange juice right out of his hand when he passed.

Now Sam won’t leave the guy alone—and it’s starting to bug the shit out of Dean. He recalls the time when he was eight and found a stray kitten in their backyard; John told him they couldn’t keep it, and if he got too close to the thing it’d be harder to let go later. Sure enough, Dean cried a little when they had to give General Paws ( _not_ Dean’s idea) away.

Dean’s knocked out of his thoughts when a packet of laundry detergent hits him in the chin. He grapples for it and glares at Sam where’s he’s cracking up across the room, and turns to Castiel only to find that he’s on the other _other_ side of the room, peering in to a dryer and a curious expression on his face. Castiel reaches a hand in to the machine and acts like he’s trying to untangle something before pulling out with a wad of pink fabric in his fist.

Dean’s already steps away from him when Castiel unfolds it—revealing a nice lacey pair of what Dean hopes to _God_ is clean women’s underwear.

“Jesus,” he hisses and snatches the garment out of Castiel’s hands just as the other is turning a dark shade of red on his ears. “Stop touching shit.” A loud, mechanical bang and a sharp gasp from Sam at the other end of the room has Dean adding, “Both of you!”

Tossing the forgotten underwear on the nearest folding table, Dean throws his bag onto the ground in front of one of the washing machines, unzips it, and begins loading a medley of his and Sam’s clothes in to it. Halfway through he seems to remember something and looks up at Castiel.

“You can throw yours in here with mine and Sam’s if you want. Saves a load.”

Castiel’s hands come up to his jacket wear he fingers the hem of one of the lapels in thought before reaching in to one of the pockets and pulls out his change of clothes. Dean backs up a step and gestures to the machine, and Castiel throws his clothes in with the others.

He steps away, and Dean watches him in expectation for a few seconds before mumbling, “The jacket can fit, too.”

Castiel gives a firm shake of his head. “I’d rather not.” He seems to understand that his answer was strange by the confused pull back of Dean’s face, and hastily adds, “Sorry,” like it should clear the air a bit more.

Dean doesn’t argue, not understanding and not really caring to either, and instead just shrugs and closes the door of the machine, pours most of the packet in to the detergent compartment, and feeds five quarters in to the waiting slots. He folds down the top of the detergent packet and holds it out to Castiel. “At least hand wash it, dude,” he offers, and shakes the packet a couple times until Castiel hesitantly reaches out and takes it from him. “It’s dirty. Sink’s over there.” He points to the sink next to the dryers where Sam is playing with the faucet, lost in some sort of thought. Dean watches his younger brother bring his index finger up to his eye and press on the still blooming bruise there in experiment.

“Sam,” Dean calls, and his brother flinches out of his reverie. “Get over here and sit down.”

His brother does as he’s told, joining Dean where he sinks down on to a bench right by the machine they’re occupying—and Castiel slowly begins peeling off his jacket in the most delicate fashion Dean has ever seen someone take a garment of clothing off.

Castiel plugs the deep sink and fills it with water, then pours the remaining powdered detergent in to the sink and swirls the mixture around with his hands until it foams. He carefully feeds inch after inch of the large jacket in to the water until it’s completely submerged, and then he lets it soak. Dean doesn’t bother telling him that’s not gonna get it clean at all— he doesn’t have the energy.

Dean closes his eyes and listens to the soft hum of the washing machine when it begins its first spin cycle and the shaking that follows soon after. They’re by themselves in the building and the pounding of the machine is drumming off the walls—and Dean’s head is starting to pound along with it.

After a couple minutes there’s a sloshing sound, followed by a soft _pop_ and the rushing of water, and Dean cracks an eye open. Castiel is pulling his coat out of the sink and watching the suds wash away in a vortex down the drain, oblivious to the puddle pooling underneath his worn sneakers.

“Dude,” Dean barks, irritated at the sight, “you’re dripping everywhere!”

Castiel looks from him, to the coat, and then back again before the realization dawns on him and quickly yanks the bundle of cloth back over the sink. Dean rubs the bridge of his nose and absently wonders if the vending machine carries Tylenol.

“Take it outside and wring it out some—it’s windy and should air dry faster that way.”

Castiel nods and bundles the coat in his arms as he makes his way towards the door, past Dean and Sam, with a steady trail of water droplets falling behind him as he goes. Dean shakes his head.

Sam pounces as soon as Castiel walks through the door.

“Is he staying?” he asks immediately, sitting on his ankles and leaning in far too close. “Are you letting Cas stay?”

Dean’s palm connects with his younger brother’s forehead and he shoves him away. “ _Jesus_ , Sam.”

“Ow, Dean, stop!” He manages to grab Dean’s wrist and pull his hand down. “I’m just asking!”

“He’s _not_ staying, we’re just helping him out with some laundry and then he’s gone.”

At this Sam gives his brother a look that is full of disdain and what Dean call’s his brother’s signature _bitch face_ and is on his feet, facing the machine and brooding in a way that makes Dean want to roll his eyes.

“Sam.”

“Whatever, Dean.”

“Sam—”

“Dean—”

“— _Castiel?_ ”

Both brothers snap their heads to the door, then back to each other; neither of them had said it—it was a high pitched question, almost a yell, and it was definitely from a woman. And it was loud enough that the whole block had to have heard it.

Dean rises slowly to his feet and tries to make a grab for his younger brother as Sam makes a break for the door, hissing his name when his fingers fail to find purchase on the fabric of his shirt.

Sam cautiously peers out of the door for a couple seconds before throwing a glance back at his brother. “There’s some woman in a fancy car,” he whispers, concentrating. “She’s yelling at Cas.”

_“What?”_

Dean is at the door in three long strides; he pushes Sam’s head aside to get a clear view.

There _is_ a fancy car, one that Dean gives a low whistle at, and a young woman with long, fiery hair half out of it, completely blocking traffic where she’s stopped in the middle of the road. An irritated man sits in the passenger seat, giving the woman a fierce look.

Castiel looks terrified. He doesn’t look necessarily terrified _of_ her, but he definitely appears uncomfortable. His eyes and are wide and jumping between her and the car, and he grips his coat a little tighter, clearly in the middle of wringing it out.

“Does he know her?” Sam whispers, still watching the scene in front of them. “Who is she?”

“No freakin’ clue.”

The woman leans her head in to the car for half a second to seemingly shout something at the man waiting inside before slamming the door shut and sprinting around the car, through a busy lane of traffic, and right up to Castiel.

…Who takes a step back when the woman collides with him none too gently in a full on bear hug.

Dean’s mouth drops open.

Castiel, for his part, hardly reacts. Dean does notice him grip the coat in his hand so hard his knuckles turn white, and he seems to tense, but otherwise makes no move to return the embrace.

“Castiel,” the woman breathes as she pulls away from him, and her face is red and eyes puffy. “Castiel, oh my _God_ , it _is_ you.” She places her hands on his shoulders and dips her head to catch his steadfastly downturned eyes. “I haven’t seen you for—I had no idea where you—Castiel, what _happened_ to you?”

The response she gets is Castiel, looking more and more uncomfortable by the second, only staring back at her. The woman pulls her hands from Castiel’s shoulders to place them on each side of his face and shouts over the blaring car horns in the background, “Castiel, answer me.”

Something feels off.

“Dean,” Sam whispers to him. “I don’t know who she is, but I don’t think Cas likes her very much.”

Dean doesn’t offer a reply except for an involuntary clenching of his fist when Castiel makes an obvious attempt to duck away. Something about it seems too familiar, too close to home or _something_ , and he’s starting to wonder what the hell he has exactly gotten himself in to with this guy.

“Wait here,” he orders, and it’s a firm enough command that Sam, for once, doesn’t argue.

He’s halfway to the pair when he cautiously calls out, “Is there a problem here?”

The woman immediately sets her sights on Dean, and she pulls away from Castiel an inch or two. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Dean gives a small nod to Castiel. “You okay?”

“He’s fine,” the woman answers instead, and her eyes narrow at him. “I’m Castiel’s sister.”

“Sort of,” Castiel adds quietly, and Dean’s pretty sure those are the first words he’s spoken since this encounter began.

The woman rounds on him, looking incredulous and… hurt? “Sort of? Cas, I’m as good as!”

At once, over all of the honking and angry shouts around, an obnoxiously long horn blasts from besides them, and all members of the party jump at the sound.

“Anna!” The man from earlier, now in the driver’s side of the vehicle—a handsome young guy wearing dark sunglasses—is staring at them with an increasingly irate look to him. “Anna, if you don’t get in this car right now we are going to miss our flight.”

“I’m coming,” the woman—Anna?—shouts back, and she waves a dismissive hand at him before turning back to Castiel.

“Flight?” Castiel asks, almost to himself, as he stares at the man, now sitting with his arms crossed firmly over his chest as he keeps glancing at his watch again and again with a huff.

Anna’s face falls. “Yeah I’m—I’m leaving for Hawaii today.” She tugs at her hair sheepishly. “It’s my honeymoon, actually.”

“Honeymoon?”

“Yeah, I—I got married!” Anna laughs nervously and holds up her left hand to Castiel—and even Dean has to give a small _whoa_ at the size of the rock attached to her ring finger. She appears to realize the action as a mistake and immediately yanks it away behind her back. “Can you believe it? Me, married?”

“Congratulations, Anna.”

Anna gives her brother a pitied glance. “Castiel, what happened—you know that I had no control over it. And—and what happened to you, it was… It wasn’t fair to you. No one doubts that. Not then and not now.” She pauses, like she wants to say something, so much more—but the blank stare Castiel is feeding her makes her rethink it. “I just want you to know that.”

Another loud honk, longer this time. “Anna!” the man in the car bellows again.

“I said I’m coming!” Anna quickly turns to Castiel and holds his gaze. “Cas, come with me. Come with me to Hawaii. I know it is short notice—well not really any notice at all, but—I’ll pay for your ticket. I’ll pay for your ticket and then we’ll come home and we can start to straighten this—this whole _mess_ out. We can start over. We can start everything over.”

“Anna,” Castiel says slowly, and he brings his hands up to her wrists and lightly tugs her hands away. “I don’t want to start over. I’m fine where I am.”

There’s a small sound that passes from her lips and it sounds to Dean a lot like desperation. “Cas—you are not _fine._ You’re—God you’re _on the streets,_ aren’t you? Cas?”

A pause. Castiel opens his mouth like he’s about to either protest or agree, but when he shuts it again after a couple attempts at a good lie, it’s quite enough of an answer.

“ _Cas—”_

“He’s not.” Dean’s about to whirl his head around to find the source of the voice that just answered until he realizes that oh—that was him. What? “He’s staying with me. Me and my brother, that is.” Dean jerks a thumb at Sam behind him, who he hopes is still there.

The woman glances over Dean’s shoulder. “ _You?”_ Anna scoffs, and Dean doesn’t feel like the level of condescension dripping from it is all that necessary.

“Yeah, me. So, you can be on your merry little way over to Hawaii and enjoy your honeymoon. Try the mahi-mahi, I hear it’s excellent.” Dean offers, and Anna purses her lips.

“Listen,” she begins and starts fishing something out of her shoulder purse. She eventually seems to find what she’s looking for: a pen and a crumpled old receipt that she smoothes out over Castiel’s arm. “This is my number. My phone is always on and—and Castiel, please promise me you’ll call me. Please. I want to see you and—and I don’t know. Make things up to you somehow. Or at least try.” She scribbles a hurried note on to the paper and hands it to Castiel, who is slow to take it in turn.

“Also,” she adds, and she’s back to digging around in her purse until she pulls out a handful of coins and a two wadded up dollar bills. “It’s all the cash I have on me right now, but—use it for a payphone, alright?”

She shoves the money alongside the note so forcefully that Castiel has no choice but to close his fist around it. “I mean it, Castiel. Call me. Please.”

She wraps her arms around him one more time, squeezes for good measure, and when she’s pulling away something in Castiel’s other hand catches her attention. She pauses, staring down.

“You still have that thing?” she whispers, her fingertips touching her chin as she eyes the coat balled in his grasp with something Dean can’t place. She looks stern, like she’s about to stay something else before she eventually decides better of it and says quietly, “I’ll talk to you on the phone, Castiel. I miss you. A lot. Stay safe.”

Then she’s at the curb, looking for the perfect second to jump across a lane of traffic, her nameless fiancé still pounding the horn every two seconds, and Castiel watches her go. When her fiery red hair disappears in to the interior of the car and the vehicle begins to immediately speed off down the road, Dean lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

“So,” he says slowly, watching Castiel from the corner of his eye. “That was all sufficiently awkward.”

Castiel is still staring off down the road where the car has already fled out of sight.

“Look,” Dean says, shoving his hands in his pockets. “You don’t have to spill the details because it’s your personal business and all but—was that really your sister?”

“No,” Castiel answers quickly. Then there’s a pause and he winces. “Yes and no. Anna is like a sister to me, but biologically we are not related.”

“So you grew up together?”

“Something like that.”

“Dude, how long has it been since you’ve seen her? She acted like you were the second coming of Christ so it must’ve been a long ass time.”

“Six years, I believe.”

Dean nods and clicks his tongue. “Wait, don’t tell me, I’m gonna take a stab at it—she turned eighteen, left in some car with a boy and never came back?”

“Everyone sort of… left. But as for her end that sounds sort of right.” Castiel rubs his neck and gives Dean a sheepish look. “In reality Anna really wasn’t at fault for how things ended, but… I suppose it just makes me remember all of it and I shouldn’t have closed up on her like that. Anna tried her best. We all did, and sometimes your best isn’t enough.” He gestures to Dean. “You know this well enough.”

“I guess.” Dean kicks his feet at the pavement. “I guess I also think that siblings have more responsibility to each other than that. They don’t get to have everything while their brother sleeps out on the streets.” Castiel doesn’t respond. “You okay, man?”

Castiel’s brow creases a little in small confusion. “Of course, Dean. Are you?”

“Hey, I’m not the one who just had particularly dirty laundry aired in the middle of the street—but yeah, I’m all good. Let’s just go dry the clothes and get the hell out of this place, yeah?”

Castiel nods and follows Dean back to the entrance to the Laundromat, where an elderly man, dirty and shaking a small cup of change, has taken a seat. Dean tries not to look at him, wishing he could give him a couple quarters if he had any spares, but he doesn’t so he tries to pretend like he doesn’t notice. Probably like how he wouldn’t have noticed Cas if he hadn’t literally almost run over the poor guy. Probably how most of the hundreds of people Cas and this guy come across each day don’t _notice_.

He stops with one foot in the building when he hears rustling behind him—and he turns to find Castiel unfolding the dollar bills Anna had just stuffed in to his hand one by one, and without hesitation drops the entire sum she had given him—including her number scribbled on a receipt—in the cup.

“I truly wish Anna well in her new life,” Castiel mumbles and smiles when the old man grabs his hand in silent thanks. “She deserves happiness.”

 

 

*

 

Castiel claims his small pallet in the corner of the room once more that night. No one offered to let him stay the night again, and he never really asked—it just, happened. Castiel didn’t leave and no one made him. Dean’s sure he would be more confused by it all if he wasn’t so damn tired.

Even though Sam made at least ten thousand offers to share his bed with Dean to allow Castiel to sleep on a mattress, Castiel steadfastly refused.

“I like it down here. It’s more than enough.” He would explain over and over again, even when Sam didn’t look all that convinced.

Dean watches Sam fall in to a deep sleep, and when he goes to turn off the light, he looks over to see that Castiel is still awake, thumbing through one of Sam’s books. Sam was excited to lend Castiel a couple of them, but to his disappointment Castiel had already read them all. _“One of my brothers kept a lot of books. I’d steal them from him sometimes.”_

“You still need the light?” Dean asks, and Castiel acknowledges him by closing the book and tossing it aside.

“No, I’m fine. Thank you, though.”

Dean nods and flicks off the lamp, plunging the room in to darkness. “I’m going to be getting Sammy up early in the morning, he has school tomorrow. You’re welcome to stay here while I’m gone—I trust you’re not gonna rob us blind.”

“I don’t want to push my luck,” Castiel calls from the other side of the room, “but if you wouldn’t mind me tagging along, I’d like to go. I’d like to drive around the town.”

Dean shrugs. “Sure, no skin off my nose.”

He watches Castiel pull the warm blankets over him, still in his old coat, and Dean absently wonders if it must get too hot in the Summer. He doesn’t ask. Instead turns over and quietly mumbles, “I’m sorry that I was an ass.”

He doesn’t think that Castiel has heard him—the room is completely silent back, and just before Dean falls asleep he hears Castiel say, “You’re forgiven.”

Dean laughs and tells him to go the fuck to sleep.

 

*

 

“I don’t want to go to school,” Sam sighs groggily as he gnaws on a piece of toast Castiel brought from the free breakfast in the motel lobby.

“You love school,” Dean says, and he flicks the wrap his muffin came in at his brother. Sam seems too tired to care.

He yawns. “I’m exhausted.”

“Yeah, I know man. I know it’s been a long weekend.”

Sam gestures to his eye. “What if someone asks about this?”

Castiel comes out of the bathroom, his hair dripping wet and in his clean change of clothes. He’s slipping on his coat when he says, “You don’t have to answer them.”

Dean nods. “Exactly. It’s not their business, fuck ‘em. Now get a move on.”

Before they leave, Dean and Sam go over their checklist—lunch, bag, books, etc. Castiel watches them quietly from the back of the Impala and doesn’t intrude.

On the way to the school, Castiel seems almost enraptured by the sights blurring past him while they drive. Dean and Sam argue relentlessly about what music to put on all the way there, so no music is actually ever played.

When Sam gets out of the car, waves goodbye, and makes his way up to the school, Dean leans back in his seat and closes his eyes.

“Do you wait for him here all day?” Castiel asks.

Dean shrugs, his eyes still closed. “Sometimes. After I dropped out, I was always the one who took Sammy to school. At first I stayed to keep it a secret from my dad—then I just did it because it was relaxing. It was better than going home, I guess.” He pops an eye open at Castiel. “We can go somewhere else, if you want.”

Castiel immediately shakes his head. “No, I’m fine here. It would save gas and—and I would kind of like to sit here. It’s not too hot.”

“It’s probably scorching with that damn coat on.” Dean mumbles, and he looks at Castiel through the mirror. “Where’d you get that thing, anyway?”

Castiel tugs at one of the sleeves. “Someone close gave it to me a long time ago.”

Dean nods. It was quiet for a couple of minutes before,

“What about yours?”

“Hm?”

“Your coat. The one you were wearing when it was raining.”

“Oh,” Dean said, understanding. “Yeah that’s—It’s my dad’s.”

Castiel seems to consider this for a moment. “I would say that you fill it out well, but I’m afraid that may not be well received.”

A laugh escapes Dean. “It’s alright. I get what you mean—and thanks.” He looks at Castiel through the mirror. “My dad, he’s…he’s sick. He’s not all there right now but—I mean he’s still my dad. I love my dad, no matter what.”

Castiel nods, and Dean doesn’t think it’s aimed at him. “I understand,” Castiel eventually says. He leans back in his seat and stares out of the window. “What time do they get out of classes?”

Dean instinctually glances at his watch and isn’t even surprised anymore when he forgets that the watch is _still broken_. “Threeish. Relax. Take a nap or something.”

But Castiel’s eyes are already shut.

 

*

 

Dean is violently jerked out of the nap he wasn’t even aware he was taking when a hand raps against the window of the passenger seat. His eyes snap open and he instinctively grabs on to the steering wheel until he sees Sam, his backpack slung over his shoulder and looking exhausted, waiting to be let in.

“Sorry,” Dean says when he finally unlocks the door.

“Hey, Cas!” Sam turns in his seat to get a good look at Castiel, who is just stirring from an apparent impromptu nap as well, and he must have slept weird for his hair is completely sticking straight up in the air on one side.

“Yeah, no hey for your big brother, I see how it is.”

“Hi, Dean,” Sam adds as if it truly labors him, rolling his eyes and shutting the car door.

“Did we sleep for the entire afternoon?” Castiel wonders aloud, rubbing his eyes, and Dean doesn’t even realize he’s staring at him in the mirror until Castiel catches him.

Dean snorts. “Now you see how I wasted my life away. Painfully easy, isn’t it?”

They pull out of the parking lot, Castiel asking Sam what he did in school this particular day. Sam starts talking about some project in science where they are building boxes for eggs to be dropped in to see if they can drop one from twenty feet and it still not crack.

Dean looks down to check on his gas and noticed the needle is almost on empty; he wonders if he should wait to get it at the station near the motel, but almost immediately he comes upon a sign for a station that’s cheaper and decides it’s better safe than sorry. “I’m gonna pull over here for just a minute,” he tells them when he slows down. He pulls in to the station and throws the gear in park.

"I’m just getting some gas so stay in the car," Dean barks to Sam next to him, but his command is lost to the open air when he sees the car door is already being closed again and Sam is sprinting for the store. Dean grumbles to himself as he and Castiel extricate themselves from the Impala and make their way towards the building. 

Once inside, Dean heads straight for the cashier while Castiel follows Sam around his lap of the store and in to the candy aisle.

He's pulling out his wallet when he hears Sam begin his customary lecture of the benefits of dark chocolate. "Can I get thirty on three?"

The cashier, a teen who looks bored on a life shattering level, nods once and holds out his hand.

Dean continues rummaging around in his wallet. He can't find that twenty he had earlier—he knows he had that twenty. Unless... That might have been the twenty he used to buy gas last time. Jesus, how much do they actually drive?

"On second thought," he mumbles angrily, his face now ringing red. "Just ten."

"Sure thing, chief," the cashier drawls, and he punches in a few numbers on his register before taking the crumpled ten dollar bill Dean hands over to him.

"Let's go," he calls icily to both Sam and Cas, who are making their way to the front of the small store.

Sam holds up a long, square object, and Dean soon recognizes some famous chocolate factory's logo on it. "Dean! Cas said he’s never tried dark chocolate and I think he’s gotta be lying."

Dean rubs at the back of his neck. He shakes his head, albeit apologetically, and to Sam's credit he doesn't make an argument of it--he seems to understand immediately, gives a fake lopsided smile at his brother, and places the bar back on the shelf without a word.

"Nah, Sammy. Maybe next time," Dean promises.

"Next time," Sam replies, and Dean hates how genuine it sounds.

The drive back to the motel room is quiet, because of course it is, and each and every minute that passes is setting Dean's teeth more and more on edge. Sam keeps putting what he must assume is a reassuring hand on Dean's shoulder every three minutes or so, and Dean becoming more and more sure that he might break something if someone doesn't start talking soon.

Sam keeps trying to catch his eye and Dean isn't really sure what he's trying to say--or get Dean to say for that matter.

And then they hear it. The wrinkling of some sort of plastic, a tiny pop and then— _then—_

“It’s kind of bitter.”

Dean’s slamming on the brakes before he even realizes his foot is his freaking foot. They come to a complete stop in a time that normally Dean would be sort of impressed at, but all he can do now is whip his head around to the backseat so fast his vision swims a little.

Castiel is sitting there, calm as you like in the middle seat, staring back at the two of them. A long candy bar, half eaten already, is in his hand.

“The _fuck_ , Cas?” Dean curses. “Did you buy that thing?”

Castiel looks at him, gives Dean this freaking look that makes it seem as if Dean has just asked the most obvious question Castiel has ever heard. “No,” he chooses to answer simply, but the tilt of his head and the arch of his eyebrow say he had a much more condescending answer in mind.

“Cas,” Sam asks, his voice barely above a whisper. “Did you _steal_ it?”

“Of _course_ he stole it, how else would he have it?” Castiel moves to take another bite and Dean smacks it away. “Stop _eating_ it!”

“Why?” Castiel asks, offended. “The store won’t want it back now.”

“ _Why_ did you steal it?” Sam presses, sounding completely mortified.

Castiel begins to look more and more confused by the questioning he’s been dragged in to. “Because you wanted it. Is that not obvious?”

“I—” Dean pinches the bridge of his nose and throws the car in to park. “I can’t believe I’m going to have to explain this to you. When someone wants something—say, a candy bar because why not use what we’re given here—and they do not have the money to _buy_ said candy bar—”

“—You don’t steal it!” Sam finishes.

Dean grabs the chocolate bar from the floor. “I’m just confused as to how you arrived from point A to point B here in your logic, dude.”

“I’m confused as to why either of you are confused.”

“Well, hell, why don’t we all just put this confusion to rest right here and now, shall we? This—” Dean waves the chocolate bar “—can’t happen. No more stealing crap. The last thing I need is some cops on my tail because the great Klepto Cas has returned to his life of crime.”

“ _That_ ,” Sam starts, throwing his brother an indignant glare, “ _that’s_ your only objection to this? That Cas will get caught and by extension _you_ will get caught—I can’t believe you two. You’re both awful and deserve each other.” He turns back around in his seat and refuses to look at either of them.

Castiel gestures to the bar. “Can I have it back, then? I won’t do it again, but I’ve found that I am somewhat partial to dark chocolate.”

“No.” Dean opens his door and chucks the candy as far as his limited range will allow before Castiel can begin to protest. “Destroy all evidence.”

He puts the car in drive and takes off down the road for the motel again. He doesn’t turn on any music, and the car’s occupants are all silent and brooding enough to leave him to his own thoughts. Which is dangerous, because something’s bothering him, and he has to ask. Has to.

“Okay, so I’m morbidly curious,” he starts, and both his brother and Castiel look up at him. “How _did_ you do it?”

_“Dean!”_

“I’m not asking to—you know—do it too. I’m just _curious_. How did Cas manage to steal something right under the camera’s nose? That single brain celled tween at the counter I get, but how did you manage to hide it?”

Sam gives Castiel a hard look in the rearview mirror. “Cas, you don’t have to answer that.”

“It’s not that difficult, Dean.”

Sam groans.

“It’s mostly about self-awareness. And a bit of confidence. If you’re worried about getting caught, you’ll get caught.” Castiel shrugs and Dean’s now positive that Castiel learned the hard way on that one.

“What else have you stolen? I mean anything substantial— _Sam, if you don’t like it just cover your virgin ears for Christ’s sake!”_

Castiel looks up at the roof of the Impala like he’s trying to remember specifics. “Nothing substantial and nothing to resell. Only necessities and I don’t try to make a habit out of it.”

“Okay,” Dean says slowly, the gears in his mind already at work as he locks eyes with Castiel in the rearview mirror. “Okay, Cas. What else can you do?”

 

*

 

“So explain one thing to me, Cas,” Dean tells him while they’re sitting in a parking lot, the Impala quiet save for the low hum of the engine. “You’ve got all these methods of providing for yourself and yet when I found you—you were this lump of clothes on a curb. You obviously don’t have a problem stealing so what gives, exactly?” He eyes the bar in front of them, its neon lights flashing and sputtering in the dark night air.

Castiel gives a long look. “Sometimes you get tired.”

“Tired of stealing?”

“Tired of trying.” He shakes his head. “Anyways. We should get in there before everyone leaves. You remember what to do, right?”

“Cas, have some faith in me here. I know what to do—I’m a natural at this.”

 

*

 

“Wait, what are we doing here?” Castiel asks as he eyes the bar.

Dean grins. “What does it look like?”

“This isn’t a good place for this kind of thing, Dean. I’ve been in here before. These guys play rough. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but they’re far more intelligent than they look.”

“We’ll be fine, Cas. Relax.”

Dean loses his first game, a custom he has learned over time in order to ease himself in to the crowd without raising suspicion. After that though, all bets are off. By his third game he’s already turning heads, and Castiel nudges him anxiously.

“Slow down,” he hisses. “Don’t draw attention to yourself.”

“Cas, I got this, alright?”

“You don’t,” he replies, nodding to the opposite side of the bar. “You’re drawing the wrong kinds of attention.”

After a few more rounds and Dean being admittedly far more cocky than he should, Castiel is practically pulling him towards the exit.

“Dean we need to get out of here _now_ ,” he hisses in Dean’s ear as he sees more and more sets of eyes following them. Dean, drunk on his own success, eventually concedes. They make it halfway to the door before out of the corner of his eye Castiel sees a large figure stand and begin making their way to the pair.

“Incoming,” Castiel breathes, and he makes to start walking faster, grabbing on to Dean’s jacket before a heavy hand lands on Dean’s shoulder and halts him.

“You think you little shitheads can just come in here and start hustling like you own the place?”

Dean jerks his shoulder out of the grip. “We’re not bothering anyone, _pal_ ,” he growls, and Castiel tenses next to him. “We’re not hurting anyone—we’re just playing.”

“Oh, this smart mouth boy thinks I’m stupid and can’t see his little game,” the biker laughs haughtily as the rest of the bar either looks away trying to remain uninvolved or laughs along with him. “That’s cute, kid. That’s real cute.”

Dean makes to move forward, but Castiel catches him and pulls him back. “We’re sorry,” he offers quickly. “We didn’t mean any disrespect.”

“Give me back the cash you two stole from my guys and I’ll tell you what—I’ll let you boys leave with your pretty faces still intact.”

“Fuck you!” Dean practically shouts, and the guy makes a grab for him. Castiel is immediately on the two, worming his way in between and placing a firm hand on both men.

“Wait, _wait!”_ he says frantically, and immediately his hand is in Dean’s jacket pocket, pulling out the roll of cash tucked neatly away there. Dean makes an awful sound of protest before being silenced by a glare.

Castiel offers the prize to the biker, who examines it for a second before snatching it out of his hand.

“It’s all there,” Castiel says. “We’ll stay out of here from now on, we don’t want any trouble, alright?”

The man eyes him as he stuffs the roll of cash in to his back pocket, and when he brings his hand back around he without any sort of warning suddenly seizes Castiel, one hand firmly around the boy’s throat and the other a closed fist dangerously close to his face. Through the stars in his vision Castiel is acutely aware of being shoved back in to a pool table. Dean makes a motion to him but he finds himself pinned by two large and burly men as he looks on.

“Watch yourself, _kid_ ,” the man hisses to Castiel. “I don’t want to see either of you two brats near my territory again, do I make myself clear?”

Castiel makes a small nod, and, seemingly appeased by this, the biker pulls him up from the table and practically throws Castiel towards Dean, who is shoved away towards the door.

“You okay?” Dean asks, but Castiel just rubs at his throat with one and hand waves Dean away with the other, ushering them both towards the door.

By the time they make it out to the parking lot Dean’s adrenaline is pumping. “I should go in there and kick that guys fucking ass,” he shouts back the still open door.

“Yes, fantastic idea,” Castiel replies loudly, “and what purpose would that serve exactly? You want to spend the night in the hospital? _Come on_.” Castiel drags him by the elbow back to the Impala.

As soon as Dean’s palm hits the trunk of his baby, he drops his voice. “Please tell me you didn’t almost get your neck turned in to spaghetti for nothing.”

“Well,” Castiel rasps, still rubbing at his throat. He reaches into one of his coats deep pockets and pulls something out. Dean’s heart skips a beat when he recognizes the wad of bills he’d had taken from his jacket not two minutes earlier.

“Cas—” he starts, spluttering in disbelief. “How did you…? You weren’t kidding. That guy had his goons so close to you from the second we walked in I could feel them breathing down our necks.”

“He just thought you were a cocky hustler. He didn’t think he’d need to guard his pockets as well.” Castiel tosses the cash to Dean and then reaches in to his pocket again. This time he pulls out an old battered wallet.

“His fault for putting them in the same pocket, he always does that and never learns,” Castiel says, matter of fact as he smirks and waves the wallet around. “Least I could do for the parting gift.” He points to the fingerprint shaped bruises scattered across the flesh of his neck.

Dean gives a small, breathy laugh. “Cas, you son of a bitch,” he says affectionately. Castiel hands the wallet out to Dean, who goes to grab it and clap Castiel on the back—but before Dean really has any idea of what he’s doing he’s just grabbing Castiel’s out-stretched wrist and pulls him in for an excited, sloppy and completely surprise kiss.

Castiel doesn’t fight it, but he looks shell shocked either way, and Dean quickly realizes what he’s done and pulls away in shock, a deep blush spread across his entire face and neck. Castiel looks much the same.

They stare at each other for a long time before Castiel clears his throat and takes a few steps forward, dropping the wallet in to one of Dean’s jacket pockets with his eyes firmly fixed to the ground.

“We should go before he realizes what’s gone,” Castiel croaks, and Dean is inclined to agree. They both avoid eye contact as they climb in to the car and Dean tears out of the parking lot as quickly as humanly possible. Neither of them says a world the entire way back to the motel, and Dean tries hard to convince himself it’s because he’s trying to concentrate on listening for any motorcycles trailing angrily behind him.

 

*

 

Dean and Castiel pack the car while Sam is at school that day, and when three in the afternoon rolls around they drive to the school to pick the youngest Winchester up. Dean puts one of his favorite tapes in and waits while all of the kids start trickling out of the school. He’s drumming along with the song when he notices how Castiel stares out of the window at the school. He recognizes that look.

“Wish you were in school?”

Castiel turns to him. “I’m sorry?”

“Did you ever finish? Or even go?”

Shaking his head, Castiel quietly answers, “Never really went.”

“You can still go back you know,” Dean offers. “There are night schools for adults and such.” Dean pats his shoulder. “If you want to go I can try and find a cheap place,” he says, giving Castiel a warm smile. “Can’t hurt to try, right?”

Castiel nods. “I suppose it can’t.”

A knock on the car grabs both of their attentions. Sam waves to them from the window and slides his backpack off his shoulder, opening the back door of the Impala and sliding in. “Thanks for picking me up,” he says, tossing a couple books that wouldn’t fit in to his already overstuffed bag on to the seat next to him. That’s when he notices his duffel bag.

“Oh,” he says, his face falling slightly. “Are we not going back to the motel?” he asks, looking to both Dean and Cas.

“Nah, Sammy,” Dean grins at his brother in the rearview mirror. “We’re not. Say, you remember that time that dad said he was going to take us on a vacation, and he let you pick where we went?”

“Yeah,” Sam says slowly, trying to comprehend. “I wanted to go to Disney World and you said that Disney World was for little girls.”

“Yeah well, it still is.” Dean pulls out of the parking lot. “I was just thinking that we didn’t really get to do anything big for your birthday because of dad. So, I figured the longer you wait to go to Disney World the girlier it’s going to be when you finally get there so…” Dean looks in the mirror again, watching the realization washing over Sam’s face.

“Wait,” Sam says, a light bulb clicking on in his head. “Wait—we’re going to Disney World?” he asks incredulously, and Dean shrugs. “How are we _affording_ that?”

“You let me worry about that. I figured if we went straight there today and made it there late tonight, we could spend all day there tomorrow and drive back Sunday, just in time for you to get back to school Monday morning. How does that sound?”

Dean got his answer by long lanky limbs curling around him and hugging him tight from behind. Dean pried him off grumbling about causing a car wreck.

“So that’s why all our stuff is in here?” Sam asks, breathless with excitement. “Is Cas coming too?”

“Yeah, Cas is coming.”

“This is awesome! This is going to be the greatest trip ever!” Sam practically bounces around in his seat as he starts listing off all of the rides he’s heard of and wanted to go on for as long as he could remember and how they’re going to have so much fun together and really Dean you’re the best and—

“Relax!” Dean finally says, and Castiel laughs at the two of them. “It’s just freaking Disney World!”

 

*

 

Dean can already tell he’s really not going to like this.

First there are screaming little kids _everywhere_ and some of them are even carrying fucking balloons around that seem determined to smack him in the face whenever he comes within a foot of one. Seriously, who allowed these kids to carry _balloons_.

Second there are women with scary perfect smiles in huge dresses floating around the place taking pictures with said little screaming monsters, and even a couple of guys in tights bouncing along after them. There’s something wrong with this picture, and Dean feels like he’s the only one who is seeing it.

Third, and probably the most important right now, it’s hot as _balls_.

This was a huge mistake.

One glance at Castiel seems to tell a similar story. He’s not as publicly disenchanted as Dean probably is, but he’s looking more uncomfortable and out of place than Dean has ever seen him before. There’s one girl, no older than five or six, who grabs Dean’s wrist and tries to pull him in the opposite direction _insisting_ that he’s some sort of douche sounding prince that Dean has never heard of. Dean resorts to threats he probably wouldn’t repeat to anyone ever again, much less a kindergartener in a princess dress, to get the girl to let go—and when she does she runs off screaming for her mother. They’ve only been here five minutes and already Dean can’t wait to hop back on the ferry and get the hell outta dodge.

As soon as he catches sight of Sam though, who has a huge collapsible map spread out wide in his grip and a goofy smile plastered across his whole face, Dean can’t help but grin in return.

But that smile instantly falls when Sam pulls a large red sharpie out of his pocket and begins circling things. _Circling things._

“Oh God,” Dean breathes, and Sam jerks his head up from his map and fixes Dean with an indignant glare.

“What?” he asks, defensive.

“Well—it’s just—that’s a lot of circles, Sammy.”

“Well we have a lot to get through! Did you even read the book to see what rides you wanted to go on?”

Dean blinks. “Book?”

“Dean, the park guide book? I gave it to you last night? You were supposed to highlight everything you wanted to do!” Sam slides his backpack off of his shoulder and pulls out a book that has got to be _at least_ seven hundred pages long. Sam waves it in front of him.

“Look, Sam, this trip is for you, not me—”

“—Well, Cas did it!” Sam interrupts as he furiously flips open the book and thumbs through a couple hundred pages.

“No he didn’t,” Dean says in disbelief as he watches Sam turn the book to face him, a couple of lines of text and places on a map circled in red, and then two or three more circled in blue. Dean whips his head around to gape at Castiel, mouthing _traitor_ to him.

“I thought the Haunted Mansion seemed interesting,” Castiel offers neutrally, seemingly undeterred by the death glare Dean throws his way.

Dean snatches the book out of Sam’s hand and thumbs through a couple more pages before landing on one at random and shoving it back to his younger brother. “There,” he says dryly, “I pick that ride. Happy?”

Sam takes the book his eyes fly over the text for a couple seconds before he pauses and gives Dean a serious look.

“The Carousel of Progress?” he asks.

“Yeah. That one.”

“You’re… you’re sure?”

“Yes, Sam, now can we get going? If one more kid hits me with their fucking balloon I swear to God I’m gonna murder something, and it might be that guy in the blue tights that won’t stop smiling at me.”

Sam gives a small smirk to his brother before stuffing the book back in to his bag. “Well, the Carousel of Progress is over in Tomorrowland, and there are plenty of things there that I want to do, so we’ll head that way first. Is that alright with you Cas?”

Castiel nods once and with that they set off.

Dean visibly cringes when they are forced to walk through a huge princess castle placed right in the middle of the park, but his unease is completely forgotten when they come up on what a huge sign in blocked letters tells him is “ _Tomorrowland_ ”.

Dean totally likes this place. There was some ride in the middle that was spinning people up in the air, something with Buzz Lightyear from _Toy Story_ plastered all over it, and plenty of snack stands. If all of the mini-parks were like this, maybe this place wasn’t going to be as horrible as he thought.

“Well there’s hardly any line for the Carousel of Progress,” Sam says as they make their way inside the area. “Dean, do you want to do that one first?”

“Hell yeah,” Dean replies. “Sounds awesome. Cas?”

“That’s fine with me.”

Dean stretches his arms far above his head and even gives his neck a little crack as he makes his way towards the circular building labeled _Carousel of Progress_ in large, swirly letters. “Well then, let’s go get our _progress_ on, yeah?”

 

*

 

“That was fucking horseshit.”

“Dean, you’re the one that picked it,” Sam chides him, shaking his head as he looks through his book again.

“I don’t understand how they could possibly create something so completely boring and freakishly creepy at the same time,” Dean says, crossing his arms. That was probably the worst way he’s ever wasted twenty minutes of his life, and that’s got to be saying something. “Who the hell thought spinning around watching scary ass robots sing about getting the future all fucking wrong counted as a _ride._ ”

Sam opens his map again. “Dean, those animatronics were an incredible leap in technology when this debuted at the World’s Fair in the sixties.”

“Yeah, and I’m sure they were scared out of their wits, too. Just where to next Samantha? I want to get as far away from that place as possible.”

Tapping a finger on his map, Sam grinned up at Dean. “I think I know a ride you’ll really like. It’s called Space Mountain.”

“Doesn’t sound promising, but as long as creepy robots don’t sing anywhere near my general direction I think I can stand it.”

The line for Space Mountain is long. Sam becomes preoccupied with a young blonde girl on vacation with her parents a space in line ahead of them, and once Dean catches on to it, his teasing is swift and relentless. He even coaxes Castiel in to it—or, sort of. When the only teasing Castiel can seem to come up with is that they would look very nice together as a couple, Dean tells him his speaking privileges are revoked for the remainder of the line.

As they near closer and closer, Dean becomes even more disenchanted with this “Space Mountain”. He learns that the ride is not only indoors, but it’s also old a balls, and there is no _fun_ thrill ride that his parents were old enough to have gone on when they were kids.

Dean and Castiel squeeze themselves in the most uncomfortable way in to the small car shaped like a rocket (Dean thinks that’s lame as fuck) while Sam piles in to the front. Dean tells him that he’s a sucker because the best ride is in the back and prepare for the drops better, when Sam gives him the most shit eating grin Dean has ever had the displeasure of seeing on his younger brother in a long time. _Why are you looking at me like that, you little shit_ , Dean sneers at him around Castiel’s head, and Castiel turns to him and helpfully offers, “ _Because you won’t see the drops.”_

He doesn’t have time to ask when right after the attendant gives them the thumbs up and they descend in to a light tunnel. He’s too busy staring at all of it to hear the man on the speaker yell, “Good luck, space cadets!” and the light tunnel goes dark. And then he’s being shot through the pitch black tunnel so fast his scream is absolutely involuntary. And then it’s dark. And then he just fucking _drops_.

Once Dean has wobbled in to the gift shop afterwards, far behind Castiel and Sam and looking much worse for wear, he fixes his brother with a murderous glare. “You didn’t say… it would be… in the freaking _dark!_ ”

“Should have read the book,” Castiel offers.

Sam adds, “Or, like, the sign outside of the ride.”

Sam drags them all across the park—Castiel finally gets to go on his stupid Haunted Mansion ride, and while Dean found the holographic corpses to be less than satisfactory he’s positive he felt Sam jump once or twice.

Around lunchtime it starts to rain while theyre riding the tram from Magic Kingdom to a park called Hollywood Studios. There is _one_ ride Dean knows in that park, and he’s always wanted to go on it.

“Cas,” he asks, as they take shelter under a souvenir tent from the downpour still making its way of the happiest place on Earth. “Have you ever watched the Twilight Zone?”

Castiel shakes his head cautiously.

“Good,” Dean grins, and Castiel pales a little.

They make a break for the Tower of Terror, still running in the rain, and they run inside the building all while Castiel asks question after question about what this ride entails.

“Can I see the book?” he asks Sam, and Dean quickly answers.

“No. This one has to be a surprise.”

Castiel is visibly off put by some of the decorations of the mansion, and when they reach the room where all of the elevators are lined up in a row, complete with creepy attendants, he starts to trail farther and farther back in line until Dean has to physically pull him by his elbow up to one of the elevators.

The attendant tells them to strap in, and Castiel fumbles so much with his that Sam has to buckle it for him. The attendant helpfully adds that they will exit through the gift shop at the end of the ride _if they survive_ , and Castiel doesn’t find if nearly as funny as the other occupants of the elevator do.

They play through the cinematic on each floor—the tale of the family that fell to their death when a lightning strike short-circuited the elevator and either Castiel isn’t catching on to the ride or he’s in denial.

When they finally make it to their final destination, the highest floor, the windows swing open. The clouds had dissipated while they were inside, and the sun was just starting to peek back out through the clouds.

“Oh,” Castiel offers, “at least it’s stopped raining.”

Then the doors slam shut, and they plunge thirteen stories back down.

He isn’t entirely sure because the entire compartment was screaming, but if Castiel’s scream was the one he _thinks_ it was, it will be burned in to his brain for the rest of his life.

Dean ends up buying the picture the camera snapped of them when they took the plunge because Castiel’s face was entirely worth the thirty bucks.

Sam buys a way overpriced disposable camera and asks passerby to take a picture with all three of them. He takes a picture of himself stuffing himself full of ice cream, he takes a picture of himself with a couple of princesses (Dean can tease all he wants, but it’s _Sam’s_ day), and a couple of Dean and Castiel standing in line for other rides. Dean buys Sam and Castiel both a pair of Minnie Mouse ears. Sam stuffs them angrily in to his backpack, but Castiel doesn’t seem to have an issue wearing his. There’s one princess walking around, Dean is told they call her Meg, in a long purple dress that playfully flirts with Castiel until he’s beet red and the poor guy doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself. Then he makes Castiel and Dean stand together in front of the princess castle while he gets a shot of them, and Dean almost gives him a bloody nose when Sam keeps stalling actually _taking the fucking picture_ by constantly pushing Dean and Castiel closer. Castiel’s cheeks certainly grow a couple shades darker but neither says anything about it when Sam tells them to act like they at least like each other. Dean steals Sam’s camera to get a shot of him being attacked by a llama at the petting zoo in Animal Kingdom, and he’s positive that one’s going up on a wall.

They end there run at a park called Epcot, and the pure geekiness of the place has Sam giddy for the rest of the day. There was another princess that Castiel played victim to in the most awesome of ways, and some guy in green tights told Dean he needed to smile more, for he was in the _happiest place on Earth!_ and Dean kindly told him where he could shove it. Sam asked him not to get them kicked out of the park before they could see the fireworks.

The fireworks were what Sam was apparently looking forward to the most; he sat them down by the fountains in Canada two hours early even though Dean was about to fall asleep sitting up. It pains him to admit it to himself, but the fireworks are pretty neat. Synchronized and timed and in a ton of different neat shapes—and Dean tries to commit every last detail to memory, tries to savor the moment where the smile on his brother’s face couldn’t possibly grow any wider. There’s a couple sitting next to them with a screaming toddler who doesn’t seem to be enjoying herself in the slightest, and he overhears how they hope when they come back _next year_ she’ll appreciate it a little more. He sort of wonders what it must be like to have a _next year_ like that. Castiel seems to be oblivious to them, and if the two of them tend to gravitate towards each others’ personal spaces each time there’s a boom and a thousand dots of dispersed color spread across the sky, they don’t really notice.

Sam has to be carried out of the park on his brother’s back, because he fell asleep halfway through the show.

They crash in a cheap motel a few miles from the park, and Sam is asleep before he hits the bed.

“That was fun,” Castiel says simply when he comes out of the bathroom with his Disney princess toothbrush Dean had bought him just for the trip in hand.

“Glad you both enjoyed yourselves. You’re both freaking girls.”

Castiel snorts and shakes his head. “Sam has photo evidence to prove you enjoyed yourself, too.”

“Hey,” Dean says, holding up a finger. “Blackmail.”

Castiel playfully smacks his hand away. He makes to use the discarded duvets to fashion himself a pallet on the floor before Dean silently pulls him in to bed with him instead. Castiel seems out of place at first, unsure of where to lie or where he is allowed to make contact, but Dean isn’t either and that’s what he thinks he likes about it. At some point in the middle of the night they settle on lying face to face, nothing touching but the back of one hand to the other’s thigh, and Dean is content to let that be where the living world ends and the dream world begins.

 

*

 

When they finally make it back to the motel the next night, having driven all day with only a couple stops in between to make sure Sam gets back to school on time the next morning, Sam is fast asleep in the back of the car, his mouse ears that he initially resisted now firmly attached to his head. Dean would normally poke fun at him but he can’t bring himself to do it, not when Sam looks more content than he has in as long as Dean can remember.

Castiel stirs from his nap when they come up on the motel parking lot and he gives Dean a small smile.

When Dean pulls in to the parking lot and makes to head towards the office to rent a room, he recognizes a car that’s parked in front and the tall figure leaning against it that he’d know from anywhere.

“What the fuck,” Dean whispers to himself as he pulls up to Jo. He puts the car in to park and nearly rips his seatbelt in his hurry to get out of the car. Castiel silently follows him.

“Jo? What are you doing here?” Dean hisses and Jo stands up a little straighter. “How the hell did you find where we were?”

“Nice to see you too, Winchester! You really think in this town people don’t have connections and can’t seriously find you if they just pulled their heads out of their asses a little bit? And just where the _hell_ have you been? I’ve waiting for you for hours,” she replies and then looks over Dean’s shoulder to Castiel. She sighs once and drops her arms from where they were folded over her chest. “Look, for once I’m not here to pick a fight, Dean. I just need to talk to you.”

“Yeah well, I’m not exactly up for talking, and I’d rather you left before Sam wakes up. We’ve had a pretty good few days and there’s no use in ruining it now.” He tries to walk past her but she grabs his arm.

“Dean, listen to me. I’m not here to try and bring you back. I swear to you.”

“Seems like that’s where it’s going, and it’s not going to happen either way. Cas, stay with Sam while I go book a room. Jo, get out of here. Now.” Dean makes it a couple steps past her and has his hand on the door when Jo speaks up,

“Dean—your dad is hurt.”

Dean pauses and after the words sink in, he turns around. “What?” he asks.

“God Dean, he was so angry at himself when you left. You should have seen him. He came over here vowing he’d never drink a drop more if it’d get his boys back home.”

“And you believed him?” Dean snaps. “What happened to him? Jo, _what happened to him?”_

“ _Dean,_ ” Jo says, and it sounds pleading. “We think he just wanted to… to have one last big hurrah. One last binge before he’d get sober for good. We have no idea, but this time he decided to do the stupidest thing—he went out. He took his truck to a bar, and—” She cut herself off, bringing her hand to her mouth.

Dean takes a step forward towards her. “How badly?” he says, suddenly very quiet. He catches Castiel watching him out of the corner of his eye. _“How bad is he hurt, Jo?”_

“He’s in the hospital. They’re asking for next of kin, that’s why I’m out here looking for you.”

Dean doesn’t look at Castiel when he calls out to him, “Cas, wake up Sam.” Castiel nods and retreats to the other side of the car. Dean turns back to Jo and nods. “I’ll follow you there.”

Jo sighs. “I’m so sorry—”

“Don’t,” Dean interrupts her. “Just show me where to go.”

She drops her head a little and climbs in to the front seat of her car. “Alright,” she mumbles as she turns the ignition on. “Stay close.”

When Dean makes it back to his car, Cas is in the front seat reaching back to gently wake Sam. His brother stirs for a couple minutes and rubs sleepily at his eyes before sitting up.

“Dean?” he asks, yawning around the word. “What’s going on? Are we there?”

“Yeah,” Dean replies, softly, and it’s taking ever fiber of his being to keep his face straight when he looks at his brother. “Yeah we’re here, but—” He pauses and takes a deep breath. “Sam, I need you to listen for a second. We’re going to the hospital.”

“What do you mean?” Sam’s eyes widen a fraction. “Did something happen?”

Dean nods once and around gritted teeth and manages, “Dad’s hurt.”

“ _Dad?_ ” Sam repeats, his body noticeably tensing. “What’s wrong with Dad?”

“I don’t know Sam. I don’t know. All I know is that he’s there and he needs us.”

The ride to the hospital is completely silent. Sam’s still wearing his mouse ears, and Dean doesn’t even have the mind to tell him to take them off.

 

*

 

When Dean comes marching through the doors of the ER, frantic and wide-eyed and exhausted beyond words, he scans the room for any sort of familiar face before finally landing on one.

“Bobby,” he calls, striding right up to him, breathless and his heart beating a million miles a minute. “Bobby what happened?”

Bobby looks wrecked, and Ellen appears from behind him with a cup of coffee that he takes gratefully. It looks as though he tries to answer Dean a couple of times, but doesn’t know where to even begin. Dean takes a quick look back to see Jo with her hands on Sam’s shoulders and Cas hovering nearby, allowing Dean to lower his voice and speak to Bobby privately.

“Is he okay? That’s all I’m asking.”

Bobby’s eyes screw shut and he takes a deep breath. “We don’t know, he’s in surgery right now and that’s all they’ve told me,” he says simply and takes a sip of the coffee. “He was in bad car accident. He took my truck—he was staying with us. After you took Sam and left, he didn’t want to be in that house anymore. We don’t know why he even did it, the stupid bastard!”

Dean runs his fingers roughly through his hair and hisses, “Dammit, dad.”

“He’s been doing his best,” Bobby says gruffly as he shoves the coffee in to Dean’s hands. “He needs his family right now. Where have you boys been all weekend?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Dean replies sharply. “None of that matters right now.”

They sit in the waiting room for nearly two hours when a surgeon in light green scrubs comes through the doors and asks for the Winchester family. Immediately Dean and the rest are on their feet, except for Castiel, and they approach her.

“Who are you to John Winchester?” she asks.

Dean steps forward. “I’m his son, Dean. My brother and I are his next of kin.”

She gives a short nod. “John has suffered massive head trauma in the accident, he wasn’t wearing a seat belt and he was highly intoxicated. He is out of surgery but is still in critical condition—we will be running tests as soon as he is stable enough to be moved.”

Dean waves a dismissive hand at her. He doesn’t care. “Do you think he’ll make it?” Dean asks. “That’s what I want to know right now.”

“We can’t make a prognosis yet, but he _seems_ to be out of the woods. If he makes it through the night it is likely he will make it through completely.”

 

*

 

John Winchester wakes up fourteen hours later. Bobby and Ellen went home to collect more clothes, Jo and Cas took Sam to the cafeteria, and Dean is sleeping in the most uncomfortable chair imaginable in John’s room. He stirs to the sound of someone groaning, but isn’t completely pulled out of his sleep until he hears his father call his name. He jerks awake, immediately throwing his father’s jacket he was using as a makeshift blanket aside.

“Dad?” he calls softly, and John opens his eyes, looking around the room in a state of confusion until his eyes land right on Dean.

“Son?” he tries to say, but his throat is dry and it comes out cracked.

“Shh, dad. You don’t need to talk. I’m going to go get Sam, just—just give me a sec, alright?” He goes to move but when he rises a hand catches the hem of his shirt and turns back to see his dad hanging on to him.

John is staring at his son with the most terrified expression on his face. It’s disbelief—like he can’t believe Dean’s actually there. “ _Son_ ,” he finally manages. “I’ve missed you. I’ve missed you and your brother so damn much.” He pulls gently on the hem of Dean’s shirt. “Just stay for a minute.”

Dean doesn’t say that he does too, just nods along. “Do you know what happened to you?” John tilts his head and eventually the confusion plastered all over his face is enough answer for Dean. ”You were in a bad accident, dad,” he offers as he pulls the chair in the room up to John’s beside. “You hit your head pretty bad. The doctor’s thought you had it way worse than you actually dead—it’s a miracle that you’re alive. Perhaps less surprisingly you were also drunk.”

John closes his eyes and looks away from his son. “I was going to try so hard. This was going to be it, son. I swear it.”

“I know dad, I’m not here to argue.” Dean leans over with his elbows on his knees. The constant beeping of the machines in the room fill he otherwise silent room as Dean searches for something to say. There are so, _so_ many things Dean wants to say to his father right here, right now—about Sam, about things like _why_ and _how could yous_ but now he can’t possibly bring them up. He’s not even sure that right now he wants to. So he’s left silent.

He plays with the hem of his father’s jacket before whispering, “Sam has missed you. He’s doing great in school, as usual.”

John tries to manage a smile. “Of course he is.” There’s a pause. “And you?”

Dean shrugs. “I’m getting along I guess.” His eyes flutter all around the room and he wipes his nose with the back of his hand. “I miss you, Dad,” he finally says. “I know that we didn’t part on good terms but that doesn’t mean I still don’t miss you.”

John’s face contorts in to a look of pure misery. “ _I know_. I wasn’t right by you, Dean. I was—”

“Don’t,” Dean interrupts softly. “Please don’t, dad. Please.” He blinks away the moisture clinging to the corners of his eyes and looks away. “I don’t want to talk about this. Not right now. There’s time later. Thankfully.”

John presses his lips together. “I’m sorry Dean. I know you don’t want to talk about it but that’s all I want to say. I know it doesn’t make up for what I did and honestly—it damn well shouldn’t. Nothing in this world could excuse me for what I did. What I became—”

Dean gives a half-hearted laugh. “I know I gave you a hard time. I know that I probably deserved it sometimes.”

John shakes his head and fixes his son with a stern look. “Don’t joke about that, Dean. No kid ever deserves that, you hear me? None.”

“Yes, sir,” he replies quietly, and there’s a long silence that follows, and it presses on the room as Dean stares down at his feet. He can feel his father’s eyes on him.

“I can’t speak for Sammy but I can’t ever forgive what you did to him. I forgive you, dad. I always will, but—I don’t know. I just can’t forgive you hitting Sam. And that’s why I left. I don’t hate you and I didn’t want to take him away from you, dad, but you see that I had to? I owe it to Sam to protect him, to be there for him. But I don’t hate you. I don’t want to lose you, dad, and despite everything I still love you,” he whispers, so quiet that he’s not sure John can hear, but when he looks up he realizes that it doesn’t matter—John’s eyes are closed and he has fallen asleep. He looks strangely peaceful.

“God knows why,” he eventually adds to the silence.

 

*

 

A few hours later, Dean finds himself sitting in the driver’s seat of the Impala, his fingers on the keys and his mind set on anywhere but the hospital. Sam wanted to talk to John and against his better judgment Dean allowed the two to be alone—It’s not like John could physically do anything to Sam, but he was also unsure of if Sam was ready. But Sam insisted, and Dean couldn’t say no.

But he also couldn’t be there for it.

Now he just wants to drive. He wants to be as far away from this godforsaken place as possible. He wants to put his foot on the pedal and only stop when he needs gas, rest of the world be damned.

He feels selfish now. Horribly and disturbingly selfish—sometimes he wishes he could just be alone for just a few minutes; he wishes he could shrug off all of this responsibility weighing on his shoulders for just a few seconds and just do what Dean wants to do.

Dean also wants Sam to be happy. He also wants his father to get better and for them to live as a family again. He wants his mother alive.

But then there’s that small little sliver of him that says _fuck it_ and wants to pick a direction and drive a thousand miles that way, no matter where it takes him and no matter who he leaves behind.

He hates that part of himself, but he also envies it.

A knock on the passenger side window makes Dean nearly jump out of his skin.

“Christ, Cas!” he hisses as he clutches at his heart. Castiel opens the door and peers down at him. “You scared the living shit outta me.”

“Apologies,” Castiel responds dryly. He lets himself slide in to the passenger seat. “I came out here to talk to you.”

“I don’t want to talk,” Dean says sourly.

“I didn’t come here to make you talk,” Castiel says quietly. “I came here to make you listen.”

Dean shoots him a look. “What?” he asks.

Castiel sighs and watches himself rub his hands together. “You asked me not too long ago, when we first met, how I ended up on the streets. What happened to me.”

Nodding, Dean says slowly, “I did.”

“I hated that you were so open, and I still can’t be. What happened was something so out of my control but I was so angry, so mad at the world for doing what it did to me that I lashed out a lot. I stole from people and I didn’t care. And what is worse, I think, is that I didn’t care that I didn’t care.” His eyes lower and Dean watches him begin to furiously pick at a loose string on the coat.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Dean says.

“That’s just it, Dean—I _can’t_ talk about it. I can’t tell my story because there is no story to tell.” When Dean narrows his eyes in confusion, Castiel sighs. “I don’t know what happened to me and why I ended up where I did. As far as I could remember I was just a street child. I didn’t even go by Castiel until the local church started a program to feed some of the children they found on the streets. The priest who ran the church named me after an angel, he did that for all of us, and I can’t even be bothered to remember what the angel stood for.” He leans back in the seat of the Impala and gives a sideway glance over at Dean. “The priest of the church died and no one who came after him seemed to remember or care about us. You want to know where Anna was from? We used to live together on the streets. One day a wealthy couple got turned around, or something, and they came across her.” He makes a twirling motion by his head and smiles a little. “They liked her hair.”

“They adopted her?”

Castiel nods. “I was so bitter for such a long time. I think I still kind of was when I saw her a couple of days ago. She doesn’t deserve that from me. She wasn’t allowed to see any of us after she was adopted. But I couldn’t call her—Dean. I couldn’t. I felt like I was probably reminding her of a life she’d rather forget.”

He pauses and looks at the grime starting to cake under his fingernails again. “I’m tired of being bitter. I was so angry for so long that eventually all that anger drained in to apathy. I stopped caring. About anything.” He looks up at Dean. “It’s a strange feeling when you suddenly decide that you don’t really care what happens to you. You asked me why I knew how to feed myself but chose not to. People offered me things all the time. Food, clothing, shelter. But at some point I became convinced that someone else needed it more than me and it was just going to be wasted on me.”

“But you took the food from me.”

Castiel rubs his hands together. “Yes, I did.”

“Why?”

“When I saw you in your car that night, I suppose I started caring. I was this weird epiphany and I hated it.”

Dean opens his mouth to say something, but Castiel brings a finger to his own lips and quiets him instantly. “I suddenly cared what happened to a boy I had just met and knew absolutely nothing about besides the fact that he wore a jacket that was far, far too big for him, and that made me a little sad.”

Dean watches Castiel sigh and turn to face the window. “I’d gone eighteen years of my life thinking that I didn’t have anything to really live for and I was sort of content with that, and one day that one thing I’m supposed to care about just shows up on some normal afternoon and almost trips over me because he thought I was nothing but a big pile of clothes.” Castiel turns back to him with darkened eyes. “Do you know how frustrating that is? Suddenly having to care because someone just decided to show up in your life with a sandwich and a cocky attitude and be _needed_ by you.”

Dean swallows. “Extremely?”

It happens so fast Dean barely has time to process it. Castiel leans over and grabs Dean’s face with both hands and crashes their lips together in a kiss that’s all ferocity and bite and angry passion, and Dean is so enthralled and downright confused that he doesn’t even register Castiel roughly climbing his way on top of Dean, his back pressing against the curve of the steering wheel. Castiel’s hands find his shoulders and hold him firmly down as Castiel pulls away from the kiss, effectively stopping Dean’s efforts to chase him.

“Cas,” he breathes, looking up in to the other’s eyes, both pairs blown wide with excitement.

“You started this, not me,” Castiel whispers, but any firmness in his tone is cancelled by the way he holds Dean’s head in his hands and how he brushes his thumbs across Dean’s temples.

“I did,” Dean agrees, and his eyes flutter closed when Castiel presses his hips up in to Dean’s. “Christ,” he adds in a whisper. “I’m starting to think it was a good idea.”

“You didn’t before?”

“Well, Cas, you didn’t exactly say any—”

Castiel presses his hips further.

Dean forgets where he is, what sentence or word or letter he was supposed to finish, forgets that he’s in the parking lot of a hospital where anyone can come out and see what they’re up to at any second, but he doesn’t fucking care. He grabs Castiel by the hips and slides his palms up the other’s sides, pulling his shirt up as they go, revealing an obscene amount of tanned skin that makes Dean groan low in his throat.

Castiel kisses him again, this time a little slower and more deliberate before he starts pulling at Dean’s belt and Dean isn’t sure how quickly they came to this, but he welcomes the touch eagerly. “Christ, Christ,” he repeats as Castiel pulls his hands up and grabs the hem of Dean’s shirt, pulling it up and over his head and shoulders so quick Dean hardly realizes that it’s gone. Once his hands are free they swipe Castiel’s hands out of the way, pushing the other back so he’s leaning more fully against the steering wheel and begins undoing Castiel’s jeans, popping the button and pulling down the zipper in one quick motion.

“Wait,” Castiel says suddenly, placing his hand softly over Dean’s. “Just a second.”

Castiel begins to slowly, agonizingly slowly shrug his coat off of himself. Dean grabs his hands and brings them back down to both their crotches and whispers in a lust filled hiss, “No time,” and gives Castiel’s bottom lip a hard bite.

“No,” comes a harsh reply, serious this time and sober, and Dean leans back to see Castiel wrench his hands out of Dean’s grip and pulls his coat off more forcefully this time, his eye never leaving Dean’s.

Dean watches him, wondering why this fucking coat is so god damn important to him—who gave it to him and who else Castiel could possibly be thinking of while he is about to fuck someone else—but as soon as it’s off of Castiel and tossed unceremoniously in the backseat, Dean finds himself suddenly not caring anymore. He doesn’t say a word as he leans forward and nips his way down Castiel’s hardened stomach, feeling the other’s arms draping over his shoulders and a hand snaking its way in to his hair and giving a hard pull when he bites particularly hard. Dean’s not sure if the tug is encouragement or not. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about the coat or his father or any of it. He cares about Cas right now. He deserves to care about just Cas right here and now.

Dean’s hand plunges in to Castiel’s underwear, and while he’s never touched another man’s dick in his entire life, when his hand closes around Castiel’s hard, warm cock and he gives it a squeeze, he suddenly doesn’t care what this might say about his formerly concrete sexuality. The moan he elicits from Castiel only encourages him, makes him pump faster. Castiel’s hand in his hair tightens and Dean tries to think in the cloudy haze of his head what he likes, and tries to emulate that on Castiel, but his mind is clogged with blurred images and incomplete sentences and he’s not even sure what else. He twists his hand, rubs a thumb over the head every other pump, and in doing so he sourly notes that Castiel is wearing too many clothes compared to him, but there’s no time to fix it because seconds later the hand in his hair suddenly moves to his arm and grips so hard Dean grunts in pain, and he feels hot liquid shoot over his hand and his chest.

Dean is burning and angry and hurt and excited and scared and so many other things he can’t even decipher in this moment when Castiel looks down at him and there’s some new emotion added to the mix that truly terrifies him, but he embraces it anyway and lets it wash over him and fuel the fire that’s burning him alive from the inside.

Castiel seems to become aware of himself after a minute or two, because suddenly he’s pushing Dean’s shoulders back firmly and pressing himself even closer, his fingers slowly tease their way over Dean’s own cock, still hidden beneath too many layers of clothing and when he pulls down the zipper and his tongue rolls over his lips as he looks up at Dean through his lashes.

“Cas,” Dean breathes. “You don’t have to—” He cuts himself off by brining one of his knuckles up to his teeth and biting down hard.

Before Dean can register quite what is happening Castiel sliding down between Dean’s legs and fitting neatly underneath the steering wheel and Dean only has time to feel a small bite of cold when his cock is freed from the confines of his jeans and a hot wet heat envelops it.

Dean almost chokes when he feels Castiel close his mouth around him, and he almost loses it right then and there. His hands immediately grab on to Castiel’s hair, holding him when Castiel is going too fast and pushing his head down further when he’s going too slow. The atrociously filthy sounds that Castiel’s mouth makes as it slides over Dean’s cock back and forth is the only thing Dean can hear in the otherwise silence of the Impala.

“Jesus, Cas,” he hisses and he looks down to watch Castiel only to see the other looking up at Dean, watching him, gauging his reaction. It makes Dean’s heart sing.

“Christ, just like that sweetheart, just like that,” Dean hears himself saying and he knows he’s not even in control of what he’s saying anymore, and as soon as Castiel flicks his tongue just so over the slit of Dean’s cock and then takes the entire length into his mouth, relaxing his throat, Dean is gone. Done.

He comes so hard he’s sure he’s glad he’s near a hospital because he thinks me might be having a stroke. Castiel sits there compliantly, swallowing the come that trickles down his throat and not stopping until Dean hisses when his throat closes around an area that has all too quickly because much too sensitive.

Castiel wordlessly rises up, tucking Dean gently back in to his boxers and jeans and kisses Dean again, this time just a closed mouth chaste kiss right in the corner of his mouth as Dean comes down from his high, his chest heaving as he struggles to find his breath again. Dean isn’t sure if he’s supposed to say something – thank Castiel, maybe? No, that seems a bit inappropriate, right? Damn, his etiquette is not the greatest on these matters. But before he gets a chance Castiel is already back in the passenger side of the car, pulling his shirt down and putting that damned trench coat back on.

Dean follows him, the inevitable shame that follows awkward sexual encounters burning his cheeks and he looks for his shirt. He’s beginning to believe that it’s been sucked in to a wormhole until Castiel is leaning over him, picking it up from the back seat where is somehow landed and pushing it over Dean’s head. Dean puts his arms though the sleeves, helping Castiel along as the two redress themselves.

Castiel continues to remain silent as he opens the door and puts one foot out before turning back to look at Dean.

Dean watches him with wide eyes that look almost afraid. Afraid of what? Afraid of Castiel leaving? Afraid that he’s not going to come back?

Castiel seems to realize this and silently pulls the door almost closed and leans back over to Dean, grabbing his face gently in his hands again.

Dean expects him to say something, give a proclamation of love or of some kind of devotion—expects some form of praise from Castiel or _something._ Instead Castiel just leans in and kisses him for a long time, licking over his lips and kissing his eyes and his forehead and rubbing his thumbs against Dean’s cheekbones until he whispers, “You should get back to your father.”

With that Castiel silently leaves the car, walking back towards the hospital with his stupid trench coat billowing behind him in the wind.

Dean wonders who that was really for.

 

 

 

 

*

 

When Dean makes his way back to the hospital and to his father’s room, there’s chaos. Sam is huddled in the corner of the room as he watches nurses and doctors pull and check every plug that John is possibly hooked up to.

“What happened?” Dean shouts, but no one answers. He storms over to Sam. “What happened?” he asks, giving his brother a firm shake.

Sam seems hysterical, and starts shouting random, incomplete sentences. Dean grabshis brother and pulls him out of the room. Bobby and Ellen and Jo come running to them, as does Castiel, who seems to have appeared from nowhere.

Dean asks his brother again, and Sam finally manages between coked sobs, “I was talking to dad and he just—he fell asleep but he hasn’t woken up yet, even when the nurses came in to check on him! They can’t wake him up!”

Several nurses and doctors begin wheeling John out, and Dean watches them go, his heart all the way in his stomach.

 

*

 

“So you’re saying,” Dean rasps as the surgeon standing across from him in the empty room lowers his head, “that my dad is never going to wake up?”

“There was bleeding on his brain that was missed in surgery. Your father suffered an injury there but there were not contusions or bruising to indicate it. We couldn’t scan him until he stabilized and the bleeding has now caused him to slip in to a coma. There is no sign of brain activity on our monitors.” The surgeon clasped his hands together.

“So he’s—he’s brain dead,” Dean chokes out, his eyes red.

“I’m very, very sorry for your loss,” the surgeon says grimly, and he puts his hand on Dean’s shoulder. “I wish I could give you good news. The best advice I can give to you right now is that you have the option to take him off life support.”

“What?” Dean’s head snaps up. “Why me?”

“You’re his next of kin. Right now he cannot breathe on his own; machines have to do it for him. Should you choose to do so, you can take him off of life support.”

“I can’t—I can’t kill my dad,” Dean says incredulously. “You can’t tell me that after all of this, now I have to kill my own dad.”

“Mr. Winchester, with all due respect to your situation, I have to honest with you. That man in there is not your father any more. He’s not really anyone. He’s no longer alive.” The surgeon pauses and sighs. “It’s a very difficult decision, I know, and it is yours alone to make. I cannot tell you what the right choice is.”

“And if I can’t take him off of it?”

“He’ll continue to live in a vegetative state until you do.”

Dean’s heart drops into his stomach.

The surgeon backs out of the room. “I will give you some time alone. Take all the time that you may need.”

Bobby and Ellen find him alone in the small private waiting room, and after he tells them, Ellen nearly breaks down in to a mess of tears and hugs him, while Bobby just angrily stares at the wall behind Dean like if he stared at it long enough it would solve everything, it would bring John back to life. When he asks to be alone with the decision, they do so without hesitation.

Dean sits in the waiting room for a few hours, alone. Two hours, three hours, four hours pass and he still doesn’t know how he can possibly make this decision.

If John is dead, then he and Sam are well and truly on their own. His dad is dead—he’s not killing his dad, his dad is already gone. He’s just killing the body that held his dad.

Sam. How is he going to break this to Sam?

There’s no knock on the door when it opens. Dean looks up to find Castiel standing there, hair wild as ever and still evidence of their earlier activities, which just seems like a lifetime ago now—now with all of _this_.

“I was just talking to him,” Dean says, unprompted as Castiel closes the door. “I was just talking to him!”

Castiel doesn’t respond. He just sits down next to Dean and grabs on to his wrist, giving a light reassuring squeeze.

“What do I do, Cas?” Dean asks hoarsely, looking for answers in Castiel’s eyes. “What am I supposed to do?”

“You know that I can’t possibly answer that for you, Dean,” comes the hesitant reply. “You know what is the right answer for you. No one can make it for you.”

“He—he said he was sorry for what he did. To Sammy. And to me, too. He told me he was sorry and I—Cas I couldn’t even forgive him. Even now, even like this I can’t forgive him, Cas.” Dean leaps to his feet and balls his fists in his hair. “How shitty of a son do I have to be to not be able to forgive my father whose body isn’t even _cold_ yet?”

“Dean.”

Dean turns to Castiel, expecting him to be standing there, waiting to embrace him and tell him that something will happen, it will work out—but Castiel is still sitting. Staring at him. And he’s got that stupid, fucking coat on.

“Don’t you think it’s possible he didn’t want your forgiveness because he didn’t think he deserved it?”

Dean stares down at him.

“What the hell do you know, Cas?”

 

 

*

 

At first Sam doesn’t understand. Life support? Brain dead? Dean _knows_ Sam knows exactly what those words mean, but his brain refuses to comprehend the words and he denies them and denies them until they eventually, like a tidal wave, all seem to hit him at once.

“No,” Sam says suddenly, voice high and frantic. He looks wildly around the room at the nurse standing next to John’s bed and Dean kneeling in front of him, holding him by the shoulders. Castiel is standing in the corner of the room—Bobby, Ellen, and Jo are waiting outside. Dean asked them to.

“Sam,” Dean says, “You know as well as I do that this is what is best for dad. I know it doesn’t seem like it right now, but this is what we have to do. Dad would want this.”

“You can’t—you can’t just kill him!”

Dean watches his brother for a moment before blinking back a fresh set of tears and turning around to give a nod to the nurse.

Sam wrenches his shoulders out of Dean’s grips. “Dean! Please, you can’t do this!” he screams as the nurse begins to flip switch after switch. “Dean!”

Hysterical, Sam tries to move around his brother, but Dean catches him and holds him back.

“Sam, don’t do this.”

“Let go of me! You can’t kill dad!”

And that’s it, Dean’s resolve is gone. Game over. Hearing Sam of all people shout that at him, his body freezes up and he can’t do anything, can’t say anything as Sam screams at him and Dean just watches him because he has no idea what else to do.

And then someone else’s hands are on Sam and pulling him away. Sam fights Castiel’s grip on him as he’s pulled towards the door, crying and wailing and it sounds like a dying animal, and silently Dean is grateful because he would never be able to do it. Never.

The door shuts and that’s when the heart monitor starts to flat line. The nurse swiftly switches off all of the machines, plunging the room in to an eerie silence as she quickly and respectfully makes her exit.

Dean stands up and looks at John. He looks peaceful and serene—more so than Dean thinks he’s ever seen his father look in his entire life.

 

*

 

Bobby’s house is quiet in the week after John’s death. No one speaks to one another—Dean doesn’t even try to talk to Sam. Castiel avoids Dean’s eyes like he might spontaneously combust and it’s setting Dean on edge. He wants to push Castiel up against and wall and _make_ him pay attention to him. After all, it was Castiel that initiated what happened in the car. Did he regret it? Castiel hasn’t said a word to him since. And he’s still got on that God. Damn. Coat.

Sam stays in the makeshift room Ellen put together for him and he doesn’t come out. One day Ellen asked if Sam felt up to going to school—she didn’t get any reply and left it at that.

A week after John’s death a small funeral is held. Dean and Sam stand at the front with Ellen, Bobby, and Jo by their sides. Despite Dean inviting him, Castiel doesn’t show up. Somehow Dean can’t find it in him to be angry about it—he doesn’t think he’d be here either if he had a choice.

The service is short. A couple men speak and the man they describe doesn’t sound anything like John to Dean. Four or five people claiming to know John in some way or another come in and out, including one woman named Kate with her young son in tow. Of all of those who attend she seems the most saddened, and while Dean is as gracious as he can be to the woman he’s never met, he tries not to notice just how much her boy, Adam, looks like John.

Sam moves to sit down half way through the service in the front pew of the small church with his head in his hands and stays like that until it’s over. Dean doesn’t break down until he shuts the door to his room. He doesn’t know where Castiel sleeps that night in a house full those grieving a grief he doesn’t feel, but it’s not with him.

The next morning they bury John, and Dean’s heart tightens and wrenches in his chest when Sam goes to put a flower on the dark brown casket Dean picked out himself. He’s the only one who could—he thinks John would like it. He likes it, too.

Sam’s hand falters twice before finally laying the rose on John’s casket and Dean has to pull him away for he will not budge on his own.

It’s when they are lowering the casket that suddenly he can’t breathe and that’s the last time he’ll ever see John—and he has to be anywhere but here. Anywhere. He takes a step back away from the small crowd watching the casket being lowered, and then another. He’s almost running backwards when he feels the hand grip around his elbow, tight and unflinching.

He turns to see the culprit. “Cas?” he asks, his voice small and broken. He’s wearing some of Dean’s black slacks and pale blue button up they had found when they’d gone through their house after John’s death, keeping everything they thought they’d want. It was being torn down in a few days—apparently the place was condemned. Who knew.

“I know it’s hard,” Castiel whispers, and Dean tries to wrench his way out of the grip but Castiel is strong and does not waver. “Believe me, Dean. If you leave now you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”

Dean stares at him, noticing the trench coat is packed tightly underneath Castiel’s arm.

“You think after what happened and you ignoring me this whole god damn week you can just tell me what I will and will not regret like you _know_? You don’t know anything, Cas.”

Castiel let’s his hand drop, but Dean doesn’t move away.

The backs of Castiel’s knuckles brush slightly against Dean’s hand as he turns to face the burial. “Sometimes I wish that were true.”

 

*

 

The day after the burial is the first day Sam comes out of his room of his own volition. He sits at the dinner table when Ellen asks him to and Dean watches him eat in silence. He responds with one word answers when asked but doesn’t say much else. Jo convinces him to watch TV with her but he doesn’t react much to any show she puts on. Dean keeps his distance because he knows it’s what Sam wants.

He knows that Sam doesn’t hate him, or blame him, or anything like that. He knows Sam just wants to be alone, and he wants to give him that.

Later that night after he’s brushed his teeth and is heading back to his room, he walks by and through a crack in the door that’s pulled almost completely to, he can see Sam sitting on the bed, his head in his hands as he talks to someone just out of sight. When he hears Castiel’s voice he moves in closer.

He can’t hear anything above a hushed whisper and he watches as Castiel sits on the bed next to Sam, drawing one knee up to his chest.

Dean hears his name and his ears perk up.

“He won’t do it,” Sam whispers, and Dean can barely hear it. “It’s what he wants, but he won’t do it. He thinks that I need him here—that I can’t do it by myself. I want to tell him he’s wrong—I want—” Sam wipes his hand across his eyes. “I want Dean to do something for himself. If Dean stays here, it will kill him.”

“Why can’t you go with him, too?” Castiel asks, and he seems to be talking far louder than Sam is daring to be.

“I don’t want to start over,” his brother responds. “I have friends here. I have something to be here for. Dean doesn’t—but he’ll stay here sleeping in his car all day waiting for me to get out of school because he thinks it makes me happy.”

“I think some part of him, deep down, knows that.”

The two sit in silence for a long moment, and Dean—heart pounding in his chest at his brother’s words—begins to stalk away as quiet as he can when he hears from within the room Sam’s voice: “Cas, I need a favor.”

When Dean finally heads back to his room he catches Ellen standing in the doorway of her own, her arms crossed but looking less stern than she’s probably trying to make herself look. Dean and her share a knowing glance and that’s all Dean can handle—he shuts the door to his room, locks it, and tries to pretend that if he stares at his broken watch long enough the morning won’t come.

 

 

*

 

They spend a day at John’s house, scheduled to be taken down the next day, because Dean wants to say goodbye. By now Sam knows Dean is gone—and Dean isn’t even twenty miles away from him yet. After spending most of the day wondering around the house that Dean doesn’t have many happy memories of but can’t bring himself to leave, he finally closes the front door to the house and pulls out of the driveway for the last time. He thought it would help, but it didn’t.

They make it exactly a mile out of town before Dean pulls over and refuses to move. Dusk is creeping up on them.

“I can’t do this,” he says, shaking his head. “I can’t leave Sam. He needs me. I can’t leave Bobby and Ellen and Jo. I can’t just leave—”

Castiel’s hand falls on to his. “Dean,” he says firmly.

“Dad’s never going to forgive me for this.”

“He won’t have to because he’s never going to blame you in the first place. He knew that you were going to have to leave eventually—Sam knew it before you did. The only thing that it holding you to this place right now is you.”

“I just—I just can’t leave this place, Cas. I’ve lived here my entire fucking life. I’ve only been outside of the city a few times in my whole existence, I can’t just _leave_. I can’t leave when there’s so much shit to do, to take care of. I promised my dad I’d take care of Sammy.”

“Your dad didn’t want you to promise him anything, Dean. He realized his mistakes and he knew how unfair he’d been on you. You have to let that go.”Castiel puts a hand on his shoulder. “You have to let _him_ go.”

“Fuck off, Cas, that’s my dad! I can’t let go of my _dad_.”

Castiel stares at him for a long time, his eyes searching for something in Dean’s face that he must not find, because eventually he says “Come with me,” and he gets out of the car.

Dean complies, albeit confused as to why, as he follows Castiel up the side of the road. They walk for half a mile until they come upon a very small old abandoned gas station. Castiel asks Dean for one of his matches as he rights a upside down, forgotten tin trash bin and begins stuffing it with brush and branches. Dean gives him the match and he watches as Castiel lights a fire in the tin.

“Do you believe in the supernatural?” is all he says after a while, when the fire is pillowing out over the top of the bin and it’s starting to burn Dean’s face with the heat.

Dean eyes him sideways. “I don’t know, why?”

“When I was really young, the priest at the church would talk about how when someone dies, their loved ones often have trouble letting go. It’s believed that the spirit of the deceased resides in objects keepsakes that they used to own, and that many times loved ones of the dead would keep them for sentimental reasons, believing it helped preserve their memory. _Some_ say that you can’t truly move out of grieving until you get rid of the items, destroy them so that the soul can’t hang on to it and will finally be at rest—that’s why some people never stop grieving until they die themselves.”

“And you believe that?”

Castiel does not answer, just watches as the fire grows and grows and the sky darkens in to a starry wash over dark blue.

“I know it is hard letting go,” Castiel says.

Dean snorts. “Cas—”

His face falls when he watches Castiel palm over his trench coat, feeling the fraying threads and grazing over a hole with his fingertips. Then he begins to remove it.

Dean watches him in fascination and when the coat is completely off Castiel’s shoulders he reaches out and puts a hand on his shoulder. “What are you doing?” he asks.

“Something I should have done a very long time ago.”

With that he pulls out of Dean’s grip, and walks slowly over to the fire. He clutches it to himself for a long moment before tossing it in to the fire.

Dean gapes at him. “Cas,” he breathes as the dirty fabric immediately catches fire.

“You can’t be tied to things for forever, Dean,” Castiel says quietly as he watches the fire burn and crack before the both of them. He gives the blaze a few pokes with the long branch laying near their feet, but their belongings are plenty enough fuel to keep the fire burning and the darkness at bay. “Somehow you have to learn to live for yourself. You don’t have to forget the people you loved—but you have to know when to let them go.”

Dean watches the coat agitate the fire even further, amazed. He sees as Castiel out of the corner of his eye scrub a hand over his face once before dropping his eyes to the ground.

“Are you okay?” he asks. “Do you want to…?”

“No,” Castiel answers, not harsh, but firm. “No, I don’t want to talk about it.”

Dean nods. He wonders if it’s true—if people really do stay behind. What if they don’t want to stay? What if they just want to go home?

Clenching his jaw, Dean makes up his mind. He grabs the collar of his coat and begins peeling his father’s jacket off of him, ignoring the way Castiel stares at him in alarm. Castiel looks like he wants to say something but he refrains.

“I don’t need you anymore, Dad,” Dean says quietly and he folds the jacket over in his hands and stares at the material, running a hand over it. “We don’t have a lot of great memories, but the ones we do have I wouldn’t trade for the world. Sam is gonna be just fine. I’m gonnna be just fine.” His voice cracks and he pauses, regaining composure. “I don’t need you anymore, Dad. I haven’t for a long time. You suffered enough while you were here, don’t stay here any longer than you have to. Just,” he pauses again as he pats the material one last time. “Just say hi to mom for me.”

With that he swiftly tosses the jacket in the fire.

Castiel stands there, golden in the light of the fire raging before him. He watches the flames consume the two most important objects in the world—or at least, their worlds—and he doesn’t speak a word. He doesn’t tell Dean about the coat; he doesn’t tell him where it is from or _who_ it is from and Dean doesn’t ask. He doesn’t need to. When—and if—the time is right Castiel will tell him.

Dean stands next to him, watching the leather curl slightly with the heat and the trench coat next to it become devoured. He _thinks_ he’d give anything in the world right now to be able to snatch it right back out of the flames, but he refrains because somewhere inside him he knows what he has to do. Castiel is watching him out of the corner of his eye, perhaps gauging him to see if he really will jump in there after the thing.

He doesn’t even realize he’s crying at first. When he feels a track of wetness on his cheek he attributes it to the sting of the heat and to anything else he can possibly blame the moisture at the corners of his eyes on. Something flutters in front of him when he makes to wipe his eyes, and it flurries around aimlessly before landing right at Dean’s shoes.

Dean recognizes it—of course he does—the small white strip of fabric with the laundering instructions he knows like the back of his hand, the tag that used to itch at his neck on a hot day when he refused to take off the jacket even though it was well over eighty degrees outside. On it in large, blocked letters written in magic marker many years ago is one word: _John_.

He stares at it, his lips hardening in to one thin line as he watches it almost flap away, carried by the wind of the silent autumn night. He quickly toes the end of his boot over it so that it just struggles, futile, beneath the weight to get away.

Castiel watches him wordlessly, looks between him and the tag a few times before he bends down, arm outstretched towards the object. A hand firm on his shoulder stops him and he looks back up at Dean in question; then, acknowledging the slight push of the hand, takes a step back.

Dean rips the tags out from under his shoe and holds it between his thumb and his index finger, staring at the inked name in the dim light of the fire. He expects he should say something, honor the named in some form or another or say some kind words about their life and how they were loved. He doesn’t. He doesn’t feel as though he needs to—John is gone and Dean isn’t going to be able to bring him back. John won’t be there to see Sam graduate high school or see him off to college. He won’t be there to see Sam marry some girl from the right side of the tracks and have like twenty kids and a dog and a white picket fence or something. He won’t see Sam be everything that he and Dean failed to be. And now maybe Dean won’t be there to see that either. But wherever John is, he knows Sam is _safe_ and Dean thinks that is all that matters.

John doesn’t need someone to mourn over him with tears and sob stories. He wouldn’t want it, especially not from Dean. Dean can’t bring himself to say anything good or bad about his father because John wouldn’t want him to anyway.

 _This_ is what John would want. And some day Dean knows it’s what he will want too.

Dean repeats the thought to himself over and over as he steps forward and without any further ceremony tosses the tag straight back in to the fire, watching it catch underneath a piece of wood and begin a slow burn. Castiel doesn’t say anything to him, and for that Dean is grateful.

When the two ragged garments are so scorched they are barely recognizable from each other, Dean feels Castiel move next to him, brushing their shoulders and a hand slips quietly around his own, Castiel snaking his fingers in between Dean’s and holds him there and it’s the most grounding touch Dean has felt in a very, _very_ long time.

 

 

 

 

 

*

 

Later that night when the Impala is parked out in an overgrown field off a deserted country road, miles and miles away from either of their former lives, Castiel and Dean lie tangled together in the backseat, too exhausted to drive anymore until dawn. Where they are heading they’re still undecided, but Dean mentions he might like to head out west. He hears the beaches are gorgeous, and the chicks there aren’t bad either. Castiel wriggles his way on top of Dean and gives him a small smirk before resting his temple on the other’s chest and quietly asks if Dean knows what the schools out west are like.

Dean says he used to listen to Sam talking about some fussy smarty-pants school named Stanford nonstop and gives Castiel a gentle, knowing smile. He tells Castiel that if he ends up becoming some rich doctor or scientist or something that they have to buy Sam a peacock. Castiel quirks an eyebrow and gives him a questioning look but doesn’t ask why.

When Castiel finally falls asleep and Dean fails to push his weight off of his chest, giving up on ever breathing normally that night, he stares up out of the window of the backseat at the splash of stars that cover the dark sky above. Sam was too young to remember it, but Mary always used to tell Dean that when someone dies a special star is hung in the heavens for them so that those left behind can always look up at night and know their loved ones still watch over them. And just like on the night Dean learned that Mary had died, the sky seems a little fuller.

In the pressing silence of the Impala Dean is suddenly aware of a ticking noise. It’s so faint that Dean is almost positive he’s imagining it—it’s barely audible over the soft breaths coming from Castiel on top of him. Dean holds his breath and concentrates on the sounds, wondering if it’s something in the car that is going faulty. Just when he begins to hear his own heart thudding in his ears he realizes what the sound reminds him of. He hasn’t heard it in a long while, but he knows it.

He pulls his arm out from under his head and exhales deeply, watching as Castiel squirms a little from the movement in his sleep. He looks at his old watch, still wrapped around his wrist where it has stayed for the last three years, and pulls it close to him, realizing with a skip of his heartbeat that the time now reads 3:48.

Dean shakes it a little, wondering if the hand is just loose and it’s shifted, but then he sees the third hand counting away the seconds and chasing itself around the dial like it’s never stopped in its life. Dean stares and stares at it, unbelieving and confused as hell, and he’s so fascinated by the thing that he doesn’t look away until the watch strikes four even.

Dean blinks and drops his arm over the side of the seat, staring up at the Impala in wonder and lost thought until he sees a trickle of pink dawn cracking the night in the distance.

He doesn’t tell Castiel about it—doesn’t say a word, doesn’t even fix the thing to accurately reflect the time of day.

But still, he finds himself glancing at it every once in a while when he’s driving, or sitting in an old diner or lying in bed, his arm wrapped around Castiel’s shoulders and pulling him close in some motel off the side of the highway.

He knows it can’t mean anything. He knows deep down that just like the story his mother used to tell him about all those stars in the night sky it’s just a superstition; a token he silently uses to convince himself that somewhere out there the stars really are looking down at him, watching over him, telling him that everything is okay now and everything is forgiven. That it’s okay to finally, _finally_ move on.

Dean knows it’s silly.

Isn’t it?

**Author's Note:**

> "With Heat Comes Wanting" was a piece of graffiti art I found when passing an overpass where the homeless often sleep during the winter (I live in Chicago). It was sprayed on one of the cement overhangs and only stayed up for two weeks during the really terrible blizzard of 2011 before it was painted over, and hasn't yet resurfaced. It really struck a chord with me, and hasn't left me since.
> 
> Like most fics, this one did not turn out how I intended it to be. It was supposed to be longer and involve more characters, but eventually I realized that I was losing focus of what I was originally writing the fic for. There used to be far more back story for Castiel and his coat and everything in between, but at some point I realized that I wanted that to never really be explained. Sometimes you don't want to know about what kind of life someone had before you came along.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
